A Ghost of a Memory
by ArthursCamelot
Summary: The man on the bridge . . . Natasha knew him. She just can't remember. Picking up right after the Smithsonian After-Credits scene, follow Natasha and Bucky as they slowly get to know each other and remember what it was like to be Natalia and James. Alternates between present time and the past, delving deep into just how our favorite Soviet spies dared to be more than a weapon
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: Hello! Hey, thanks for clicking on this story! I'll try not to disappoint. If you aren't here from my one-shot, Haunting Memories, that's okay (but *wink wink nudge nudge you should read it). Truthfully, there's no background needed to jump into this story. All you need to know is that Natasha and Bucky left DC together after CA: TWS in order to figure out just why they find each other so familiar. Let the fun begin!**

 **Also, note. This story earns it's M rating. Because, well, _Bucky_. And eventual sexy times. Although, arguably, that also falls under the "because, well, Bucky" excuse.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America or anything else MCU. Regrettably.**

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Chapter 1: Present

Natasha Romanoff has no fucking clue what she's doing.

There are many things she should be doing other than what she is. She should be finding a new cover. She should be alone. She should be somewhere like Timbuktu or Kathmandu or some other far off place that ended in a vowel. She should be keeping up with her contacts, planting false leads for her enemies, establishing an emergency contact number with Clint or Steve. Natasha Romanoff should be doing a lot of things.

But no, she's standing in line at a Phillips 66 in Bumfuck, Wisconsin, with a Gatorade in each hand and a bag of Doritos tucked into the crook of her arm while she keeps a subtle eye trained on the passenger in her black sedan. He hasn't moved since they stopped for gas five minutes ago. He hasn't even spoken since he originally got in the car with her.

That had been ten hours ago.

 _James_.

The name bounces in her skull as she waits for the tired, middle-aged Dad in khaki shorts and a Cubs t-shirt to fumble with his wallet and plastic bag of sodas and chips. He goes to the blue mini-van parked right in front of the doors that glows from the inside due to _Frozen_ playing the in backseat. As he climbs into the driver's seat, a night janitor enters through the rear exit and bangs his mop on the shelf with the bugles and the jerky. She can hear the packages rattle as she steps up the counter.

"Quiet night for a drive," the cashier says as he takes his time scanning the chips and drinks. He scratches behind his ear as he looks her over, his eyes lingering as she expects, and her lips automatically begin to curl into a smirk. It's instinct, too ingrained to merely be a habit anymore. "Just you?" he asks.

"No," she says with a small smile. "My husband's in the car."

 _James_.

"Lucky guy."

"He has no idea."

She accepts her change, declines a bag for her snacks, and makes her way back to the car. The night is dark, dark like she remembers in Russia, with not even a streetlight to interrupt the darkness. She can barely see James in the passenger seat. He's just a giant shadow, and he doesn't move when she slides behind the wheel and places the two Gatorades in the cupholders between them. She immediately opens the Doritos, snagging a chip from the bag between two deceptively dainty fingers, and pops it into her mouth.

The crunch as she chews might as well be a thunderclap in the silent car.

She eats another chip anyway before offering the bag to him. "Want one?" she asks.

James moves.

It's just the slightest tilt of his head as he turns to look at her. His hair is still tucked neatly behind his ears beneath his blue ball cap, and his face is just visible in the dim overhead lights of the station. At first glance he seems expressionless, but his eyes are swirling with emotion, too many to name, and it almost gives the impression that he's holding back tears. But he's too strong for that, and Natasha knows it.

The silence stretches. It should be uncomfortable, but it's not. Natasha just waits, bag hovering in her hand over the console between them, and watches as confusion and curiosity bleed through his gaze as he eyes the bag. Finally, after another moment of debate, James lets his flesh hand dip into the bag. Natasha still doesn't move. She watches as he stares at the chip, considering, before popping it into his mouth much like she had done.

It takes a split second for the flavor to register, and then his eyes widen with the minutest pleasure, and he reaches for another. Natasha smirks in triumph. "Yeah," she says, as she turns the engine over. "I know."

She may not have established any contacts, planted any leads, or started a new cover, but she can say that she's introduced the Winter Soldier to the glory of nacho cheese Doritos.

And somehow that feels just as important.

The silence continues to stretch, and neither pay it any mind. Yet when Natasha wordlessly pulls into a thrift store parking lot hours later just outside of Saint Paul, James has to fight the urge to break their silence. It's not as if he needs to ask why they've stopped. He knows he needs supplies for whatever cover Natasha has in mind. What he doesn't know, however, is why she gets out of the car with him, slips her hand into his like it's nothing, and tows him toward the doors like he's hers to lead.

But he stays silent and follows her lead, working up a slight smile for the shopkeeper when Natasha cheerfully greets her. The shopkeeper, Kate, gives him a somewhat pitying, indulgent smile, as if she thinks he's a reluctant boyfriend dragged too early out of bed on a Saturday. James thinks this is Natasha's intent.

It's the simplest explanation for why they're in a goddamn thrift stop at nine in the morning.

James is also aware, however, that the ruse will likely continue to wherever Natasha plans to take them. People are looking for the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow. Individuals. No one cares about a young couple. A young couple that, if the way Natasha keeps hanging onto his arm is any indication, is very free with affection.

He slips his hand into her back pocket when she holds up yet another plaid shirt to his chest. His action serves two purposes. It cements their relationship, as far as Kate the Shopkeeper is concerned. (She's been not so subtly following them with her eyes around the store. He has no idea why.). The move also lets him gauge Natasha's reaction.

And he gets one.

Just not exactly the one he expects.

Natasha's eyes widen in surprise for only a moment. Her reaction is so quick that he nearly misses it, even though he's looking for it, and he silently admires her poise as she effortlessly smirks confidently at him and takes a step closer to him like he's pulling her to him. She tilts her head toward his, and he thinks for a moment that she may kiss him, and in that split second as he's staring down at her, waiting to see what she'll do, his heart suddenly begins to pound against his chest like a beast trying to break its cage.

It unsettles him.

Something in Natasha's eyes shifts, and she only places her hand on his cheek, and says, "Later."

She backs away. He withdraws his hand.

And her wallet.

Let her think the move was purely tactical.

And Natasha _does_ think that as she once again begins to peruse the racks of hand-me-downs for a handful of shirts that will fit his broad frame. Purely tactical. He took her wallet as a small sort of leverage. Perhaps he plans to use the couple hundred dollars to get him as far away as possible as soon as he steps out of the shop. In a way, she wouldn't blame him. She would have once done the same thing. She _had_ once done the same thing.

God, she needs to call Clint.

Yet when she hauls her choices up to the counter, James only uses the money to pay, and then casually takes the bags from her as they leave, holding the door open and letting her go first. The move is so damn absent-minded and casual that she thinks he doesn't realize he did anything odd. Yet it gives her hope that maybe James—Bucky—isn't so unreachable.

He's in there somewhere.

She wonders if she'll like him.

It's only another two hours to a cabin that's nestled neatly in a small meadow, deceptively tranquil and rustic. Hidden inside is enough weaponry to impress even Stark, a secret underground passage that leads into an abandoned storm cellar two miles east, and canned food fit for a doomsday prepper. The cabin is something of a last resort, a worst-comes-to-worst scenario, a place that Natasha created to hide indefinitely. Absolutely no one knows about it but her.

"Home sweet home," she says drily as she parks the car behind the cabin. "You get the stuff. I'll make sure it's clear."

The cabin only locks from the inside, and so Natasha takes the gun from her waistband and steps soundlessly through the door. It's all one room with a loft as the bedroom. The kitchen runs along the far left wall, its only decoration the blue-checkered curtains hanging in the window above the sink. The kitchen table backs up against the single leather couch that's draped with an old orange afghan. Then the stairs lead up to the loft where there's a full-sized, quilted bed, a nightstand, and an old Victorian wardrobe. The attached bathroom is equally basic with the exception of a clawfoot tub. Her one indulgence.

She's already aching to soak in it.

James stands in the kitchen when she comes downstairs. His eyes trail over the cabin. He's already identified each exit and every weapon she's hidden throughout the first floor from the 9mm under the end table to the grenade launcher in the coat closet. Finally, his eyes settle on Natasha, and his damn heart starts hammering away once again. Like it recognizes her and is urging him to just move his goddamn feet and go to her. He doesn't understand how that works.

But mostly, he doesn't understand her.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly with disuse.

Natasha's first instinct is to lie. Dozens of options are on the tip of her tongue within a second. She wants to regain her own memories, she needs a place to lay low, all the flights to Paris were booked . . .

But every single lie leaves a foul taste on her tongue, and so she's honest. "I don't know."

James's eyes dart to the tabletop between them. Secretly, he's disappointed. He thinks it's disappointment. Emotions are tricky for him. They don't seem to immediately compute, like a video that keeps buffering before it's ready to play. He's angry and confused and suspicious and curious and something else . . . something he still can't name, can't remember, but when he looks up and finds Natasha staring back at him, he thinks she feels it, too.

"I knew you," he says. "How do I know you?"

"I was trained in the Red Room. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes."

"I think you trained me."

"I don't remember."

Natasha's gives him a humorless smile. "Neither do I."

"Then how do you expect us to help each other? Sounds like between the two of us, we've got jack shit."

"I know a few tricks," she says before crossing the room toward him. Her steps are as light and measured as always, and James tenses as she moves closer. It feels like the thrift shop all over again, but he doesn't react. Doesn't flinch. He keeps his mask just as smooth as hers as she reaches past him, her arm brushing his side as her hand slips into her bag that he'd set on the table. Natasha pulls out the original file she had given Steve and offers it up between them. All she feels is heat as she looks up at him, which doesn't make sense at all—he's the fucking _Winter_ Soldier—and she wants to lean in closer to see if she'll burn, but she doesn't.

She merely keeps her voice low and adds, "In the meantime, this might help."

James takes the file, and Natasha backs away. He's relieved that there's space once more between them, and she's silently rattled because she can't read him. Yet both of them appear nothing but calm. Natasha gives him a little smirk. "I'm going to bed," she announces. Then, with a cute tilt of her head, she says, "The couch is all yours."

She retreats to her room and disappears into the bathroom, turning the water on and filling the tub. Once it's deep enough to swim in she slips lithely into the steaming water with a small groan of pleasure that turns into a hiss when her bullet wound dips beneath the water. It healed weeks ago, and so she doesn't understand why it's suddenly throbbing now. After all, a wound can't know that the man responsible for it is just downstairs.

 _James._

He stares at the closed bedroom door at the top of the small landing for a long moment after Natasha disappears. When he hears the water running in the bathroom, he looks away and forces himself to focus. He has a new base. He needs to be sure that it's adequate.

He has no qualms about scouring every inch of the cabin—opening drawers, testing floorboards, checking for booby-traps. It's as he searches that he realizes everything—weapons, ammo, knives, cash—is hidden exactly where he would have placed it. Just to test his suspicion, he stares down the 400 square feet of the first floor and then lets his eyes drift up to the ceiling fan. He stands on the coffee table and unscrews the cap where it meets the ceiling. He finds a roll of hundreds.

He takes it.

He still isn't sure that he's staying, and now he has some funds. Enough to get over the Canadian border at least. It's simple enough to find a backway flight from there. If he left now, he knows he could be over the border by noon tomorrow. In Europe the next day.

It would be easy.

It would be logical.

And that's precisely why he secures the fan to the ceiling, steps off the coffee table, and retrieves the file. He doesn't like how simple his thoughts are. They're dry and plain, as if he's reading from an instruction manual, and he intuitively knows that it's not normal. It's detached and cold, robotic like his arm, and whatever he is, whoever he is . . . he doesn't want to be _that_.

So he spends the rest of the night reading the file in order to know what happened to him. It's not hard. He thinks it should be, but it's not. He doesn't feel as if he's reading about himself. It feels like another dossier, like he's prepping for a mission. He doesn't flinch as he reads about what HYDRA and Zola did to him. The memory wipes, the plain old-fashioned torture, the experiments, his arm . . . he reads it all clinically and thinks that what he reads makes sense. It explains him.

That changes with two damning pages.

 _Asset and Black Widow compromised. Relationship was allowed to continue until it became plain that their relations were not purely carnal in nature. Asset needed to be heavily restrained and sedated before Widow could be extracted. Multiple wipes necessary to ensure compliance. Widow also wiped as precaution. Karpov has moved up the graduation ceremony as preventative measure._

Something in him flickers as he reads and rereads the pages. Brief summaries of missions. Notes on his growing . . . _empathy_. The word _compromised_ begins to repeat with greater and greater frequency until he reaches the end and is left with words like _restrained_ and _compliance_ and _graduation_.

He sets the file aside and begins to pace.

Emotions are hard for him to decipher. He's not sure what anything means. He doesn't remember, but he feels . . . unsettled. His chest is tight and his fist keeps clenching as if he wants a fight. Anger. Yes, he's angry.

He thinks about the pages. They come back to him word for word. He's noticed that. He doesn't seem to be able to forget anything. Ironic.

Natasha.

No, _Natalia_.

That's her name. _Natalia_.

James isn't sure what feeling floods him next. It reminds him of the thrift shop when she'd been so close to him or just hours ago when she'd reached past him to get the file. He recognizes the moves for what they are. A test. A gauge. It's why he doesn't react. Two can play that game.

But this feeling now is different. He wants . . . he wants to go upstairs and guard her door. He wants to watch her. No, he wants to watch over her. He wants to . . . protect. Yes, he wants to protect her. She's . . . she's _his_.

And that scares the fucking shit out of him, because it doesn't make a damn bit of sense.

He eventually goes back inside and finishes reading the file. Those disconcerting feelings fade as he reads, and he's grateful. There's a second file, a smaller one, tucked into the back, and he realizes it's his military records. It makes him remember the museum. That place where he'd had his own memorial, his own dedication, as if he'd been someone important and loved. Someone worth remembering.

He sets that part of the file aside for another day.

Night passes slowly. He tries to sleep and fails, waking up every hour or so as if he's escaping nightmares before they can haunt him. He wonders how long he'll be able to keep running before the memories inevitably catch up. He wonders if he wants to remember at all.

When Natasha comes downstairs as the sun is peeking over the horizon, she finds him in a pair of worn jeans and a blue-checkered flannel. Yet the sight of the Winter Soldier looking like a lumberjack isn't what stops her. It's the sloppily made top knot keeping his hair out of his face as he absently looks over his file. So that's where her hair tie went.

It should disturb her that he's able to slip past her while she's sleeping to steal the tie off her bathroom sink.

Instead, she's impressed.

He doesn't look up as she walks past him to start the coffee, which she takes as either a sign of trust or a blatant dare. She feels it's the latter, and instead of warning her away, it really only entices her to flirt with a fine line. So once she gets the coffee brewing, she boldly walks right up behind him. He still doesn't turn, doesn't outwardly react, but the muscles in his back tense.

James goes completely still once her hands are in his hair. "You know," she says as she gently tugs the tie from his hair, "you could have just asked." He doesn't stop her as she begins to sift her fingers through his hair. It feels . . . nice. He wonders if she often did this during their affair. "That way," she gathers his hair neatly in her hands and twists, "I could show you how to tie it."

Natasha wraps the tie around the bun and resists the urge to fluff it out and make it more stylish. She'll ease him into that part. For now, it's merely a practical solution, and her coffee is ready anyway. "So . . ." She takes the whole coffee pot and two mugs with her to the table and quietly begins to pour. ". . . Learn anything interesting?"

James frowns. His brows furrow in agitation. "No," he snaps. Then, "yes." And finally, "Fuck if I know."

Natasha studies him for a moment and then pours another cup of coffee. "Well," she says, pushing the mug toward him. "That's better than nothin'."

She watches him stare at the mug as if it's a puzzle he can't solve. She remembers what it's like to be confused over something so innocuous. Clint has bought her coffee every morning since the day he recruited her, and she remembers being so confused by the gesture. At first, she thought it was a strategy. Make nice. Be friendly. Lull the mark into submission.

It led to her wasting a hundred good coffees before Clint finally looked at her and said, "It's just fucking coffee, Nat." Followed by, ". . . so do you like tea?"

She stomached another month of bad green tea before she cracked and told him to bring coffee or she was going back to Russia.

She looks at James and then back at the coffee. "It's just coffee, James. If I wanted to lull you into my web, I'd go about it a bit differently."

He meets her gaze then, and there's something in his eyes that makes her uneasy. She just can't put her finger on why. Her eyes drop pointedly to the file while she takes a slow sip from her mug. "No help at all, then?"

His gaze drops from hers. Inwardly, she's relieved. "Some things feel . . . familiar."

"Like what?"

She's aiming for something meaningless, something simple. A mission, a place, a name. James knows that, and so he says, "We had an affair. In the Red Room."

"Yes."

"I trained you."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it."

He studies her reaction. Naturally, there isn't one, and he's unsure whether he's amused or frustrated. He wants to know if she remembers. He honestly _doesn't_ want her to remember. He likes the idea of someone being just as in the dark and fucking confused as he is, but then that sounds petty. Perhaps he is petty.

Hell if he knows.

"I want to remember," he says.

Natasha ignores how her stomach flips. "Then, let's try to jog your memory."

Five minutes later, they've both changed into sparring clothes. James wears his tactical gear, though he chooses to disregard the vest. Natasha is in a simple tank top and yoga pants, looking like she should be spending a day curled on a couch with a book rather than going toe-to-toe with the deadliest assassin in United States history. She sidles right up to him, eyes bright and teasing, but James isn't fooled. The smirk on her lips is decidedly dangerous, like a cat watching a mouse.

"It's probably best that we start at the beginning," she says.

James hesitates. He doesn't want to hurt her. Honestly and truly, he doesn't. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

Natasha isn't worried. "C'mon. It'll be fun."

"This is your idea of fun?"

"One way to find out," she says as she sways even closer to him. She's testing him again, and she smiles when he tenses as she adds, "You show me your moves, and I'll show you mine."

Neither is sure who makes the first move, but they meet head on with brutal grace. Natasha is quick. Every strike is a blur. She's always moving, never staying in one place long enough for James to grab her. Yet she dares to get close, climbing onto his shoulders and spinning, throwing him onto the ground with inhuman strength. He rolls onto his feet in the next second and they meet again.

It continues like this, constantly meeting again and again, every punch and kick flawlessly countered. It isn't like the highway in D.C., and it isn't like the cliff in Odessa. James isn't the Soldier. His motive isn't to finish his mission. He only wants to test Natasha, to find proof that he trained her. He wants to see her moves.

Natasha smiles at him as he purposefully leaves himself open to see what she'll do. She ignores his open side and instead goes for his legs, kicking his knee and landing a right hook against his jaw that leaves him impressed and frustrated. _Don't make the obvious move. Surprise your enemy._ It's just what he would have done.

And as they continue to dance—because it's undoubtedly what they're doing, he thinks—a feeling of familiarity begins to creep up his spine. This give and take, the sweat and the strain, this is nothing new. Just forgotten.

But his body remembers. He begins to anticipate her moves in a different way. It's no longer about reading her body. It's about muscle memory. It's something in him knowing her style, her moves, better than his own, and the spar becomes lighter. More fluid. It's less of a fight and more playful. She leaves herself open for a second, and instead of landing a blow, his fingers dig into her side and she shrieks in surprise.

They both pause. Natasha stares at him in surprise, unable to hide behind a mask of sly confidence. She hadn't even known she was ticklish. No one had dared to try to figure it out. Not even Clint. "Did you just tickle me, Barnes?" she demands.

James shifts his feet. "I don't know where that came from."

Natasha stares at him for a second longer before she shrugs, mask back in place. "Alright then. Guess we're fighting dirty."

Then she leaps at him, and the dance starts all over again. There are no more tickle incidents, but Natasha does pull James's hair when he flips her over his shoulder, and so he goes right down with her. He relaxes more and more as the spar goes on, and naturally, he thinks, that's when things go to shit.

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 **Whelp, there you go. Chapter 1. First fanfic chappie I've posted in four years. Holy shit, guys.**

 **So, drop me a line. Pretty please. Tell me what you think. Next chapter, we get to dive into the past to Bucky and Nat's first meeting! I started doing this for my Hunger Games fics, so I'll get you a preview line from the next chapter. Let's see . . . who shall it be? Hmm . . . how about Karpov?**

 **" _Widows, this is your new instructor. He is to addressed as Soldat_."**

 **I'll update every Friday, so see you then!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: And we're back again for the next chapter! Thank you so much for all of the reviews, alerts, and favorites. It's always nice to get feedback from people who love something as much as you do.**

 **This is our first dip into the Red Room. Brace yourselves! I'll be straight up with you and admit that I flagrantly made up my own headcanon for Bucky and Nat's past in the Red Room, stealing from the comics here and the movies there and then just my own ideas. So, if something isn't kosher, I meant it to be that way.**

 **That being said, let us begin!**

 **Disclaimer: Seriously, I don't own anything MCU or Marvel related. Like, nothing at all. Promise.**

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Chapter 2: Past

The Soldat flew the helicopter to his new base absently, following the coordinates provided while Karpov sat in the co-pilot chair and looked through a red leather book. The Soldat had not seen the book before, and noted that the pages were mostly blank. New, then.

There were many new things happening. Karpov had told him that he was to be training new agents, which he didn't understand. He was an assassin, not a teacher. He didn't know how to teach, but Karpov had told him that it didn't matter. The Soldat wasn't sure that made sense. How could you be an effective teacher without knowing how to teach?

The flight was boring. His only orders were to fly to the new base, and so he had time to let his thoughts drift. He didn't like it. It felt . . . empty. Yet he didn't wonder if it was normal. The emptiness was all he knew. He didn't ever remember a time when his mind wasn't so blank, and so he had no cause to think that he might have once been different.

But with nothing to guide his thoughts, no mission aside from flying the copter, his mind searched for something to occupy it. He settled for his weapons inventory and went through each piece, making mental notes to have some cleaned, some upgraded. The scope on his rifle just needed to be thrown out. Fucking worthless thing after that grenade blast in Prague.

He thought he'd mention it to Karpov when they landed.

Then his mind was empty again, and he grew restless as he failed to think of anything other than the fact that he couldn't think about anything. Frustration mounted as he continued to fly. Spar. Yes, he needed to spar. But no, he couldn't do that. He'd killed too many soldiers. Karpov was always annoyed when he killed them. So was the Soldat.

A punching bag, then. He'd find one. He thought about various combinations and the injuries they would inflict on a person. Ruptured organs and broken bones. He'd never checked his strength. He wondered if Karpov would ask him to in order to train the new agents.

The agents. He wondered who they were, how new they were to the Soviets. God help him if they were completely green. He didn't have the patience for incompetence.

They landed in Moscow on a private airstrip where a car waited. He rode in the passenger seat while Karpov sat in the back. The Soldat could hear his pen scratching against his book. He looked out the window. The scenery looked familiar and yet he couldn't remember the last time he was in the city. He paid it little mind.

When they pulled up to what appeared to be a ballet academy, the Soldat paused for only a moment. A cover, then. Yet why ballet? It was the first time that the Soldat wondered if the agents he was meant to train were women. It didn't matter to him, but he felt a flicker of annoyance that Karpov failed to give him this intel. He disliked unknown variables.

The doors opened for Karpov as if their arrival was both expected and fretted over, and he watched passively as someone rushed forward to collect his handler's coat and gloves. "Would you like anything to drink, General Karpov?"

"No, thank you. If you would tell the Madame I've arrived?"

"Oh, yes. She's been anticipating your arrival." The man's eyes slipped to the Soldat. "She's most excited to see the Asset."

"I'm sure she is," Karpov said with a slight smile that the Soldat recognized as a sign of impatience.

The little man did as well and laughed nervously. "Yes, well, right this way."

Music sounded in the hall as they were led deeper into the house, and the Soldier looked through an open set of double doors to his right where the music was the loudest. Little girls, perhaps no more than seven, spun in delicate pirouettes, yet there was already something deceptive in their grace that made the Soldat distrust them. He hoped that they weren't to be his students. He was an assassin, not a goddamn babysitter.

Inwardly, he frowned at the term. He wasn't sure how he knew it.

"Soldat," Karpov said as they stopped outside a door. "Your mission is to train these agents to the best of your ability. They are to be unbreakable. But for them to be unbreakable, they must first be broken so HYDRA came make them anew. Make them better. This is your mission."

"My mission," he repeated. "Do I kill the weak ones?"

"Yes. Will that be a problem?"

"No."

"Good. Perhaps if the girls progress well, you can have your fun with one."

The Soldat had no desire to fuck any of them but said, "You are very gracious, General."

Karpov smirked. "Shall we begin, then?"

He opened the door before the Soldat could answer, not that one was needed or wanted, and the Soldat wordlessly followed. His eyes scanned the room. Mirrors on one wall. A ballet bar. Mats covered the center of the room. A tall, severe-looking woman stood off to the side and greeted Karpov quietly with a pinched nose as if she'd smelled something unsavory. All while she talked with Karpov, the Soldat could feel her eyes on him.

He paid her little mind. He scanned his students. Thirteen in all. Not girls, thankfully, yet not fully women either, he thought. Teenagers. He looked them all over in turn, judging based on build and presence alone. The farthest to the right he dismissed immediately. She'd yet to take her eyes off him since he'd entered the room, and he knew that she meant to seduce him with her stare, to encourage him to look at her.

He didn't.

He ignored her and moved on to the rest. He saw nothing striking about any of them. Not one of them seemed stronger than the rest or faster or smarter. Not one of them made an impression.

He wondered if he'd be punished when he killed them all.

Natalia Romanova stood in the middle of the line. It was a carefully chosen place. Too far to the front implied eagerness; too far back implied hesitance. She was certainly neither. She was practical.

The first in line, those eager girls so willing to please, would be the first to face the new instructor. Natalia hoped that Anastasia would be eliminated. The blonde thought that fucking Karpov would grant her immunity, but she was wrong. She relied too much on her beauty to make men hesitate and her martial arts skills were piss poor at best. Natalia couldn't decide if it was the stupidity or arrogance about the girl that annoyed her more. Or the fact that so far, being Karpov's slut _had_ saved her life more than once.

There were a handful of others that Natalia disregarded. They were not competition. One way or another, they'd be eliminated. Katerina for her footwork. Anja for her speed, or rather her lack of it. Malina was simply too soft.

So Natalia was happy to wait in the middle for her turn. She'd watch to see if Anastasia's long, fluttering eyelashes would make the instructor hesitate. She'd judge his compassion when he sparred with Malina. If he spared Anja or Katerina, she'd dismiss his competence entirely. Of course, all this time, she'd be watching him. Analyzing his moves, planning her counterattack. She'd find his weakness, and she'd exploit it.

 _That_ was being a Black Widow.

The door to the studio opened abruptly, and Natalia straightened her shoulders and let her face fall into a serene mask that she'd finally perfected. Even the sharpness of her gaze was hidden beneath a veil of disinterest as she began building a profile of her newest instructor. Tall. Broad. Broader than any of her instructors thus far. She thought the extra muscle should inhibit his speed, and yet there was a carefulness to each of his steps that made her think otherwise.

The metal arm gave her pause. She'd never seen anything like it. It seemed to fit perfectly in comparison to his flesh arm like a sliver sleeve. A red soviet star was tattooed into the metal at the shoulder, and she could hear a low whir and _clink_ as the individual plates moved. She wondered if it gave him enhanced strength, if it slowed him down, if it could be disabled. She'd find out.

Her final observation was that he was handsome. It was a change in pace. Karpov had purposefully kept their instructors burly oafs of men to avoid distractions, a tact that Natalia had never understood. Was a Black Widow not meant to be above such pitiful weakness? Yet she heard a low hitch of breath to her left—undoubtedly Tanya, a waif of a girl who'd survived only due to her agility and knack for languages—and thought, _apparently not_.

"Widows, this is your new instructor." Karpov stopped in the middle of the studio and clasped his hands behind his back as he glanced at the new instructor. There was the slightest smirk on his lips that Natalia found interesting. She'd never seen Karpov look proud. "He is to be addressed as Soldat," he continued, "and will be your instructor throughout your remaining time in the Widow Program. You will each be allowed one-minute to land a blow. If you fail, you will be dealt with." His eyes cut to Anastasia who smiled at him. He smiled back. "Widow Ameniva," he said. "You will be first."

Natalia waited.

She watched the Soldat as Anastasia flashed him a smile and swung her hips as she stepped onto the mats. The Soldat did not flinch. He didn't even blink. There was nothing in his expression to even lead Natalia to believe that he saw the Widow in front of him, and she had to fight a smile when Anastasia's shoulders tightened.

Karpov shouted for them to begin, and for the first time in years, Natalia Romanova was surprised.

The Soldat did not hesitate. He moved with blinding speed, faster than Natalia had ever seen a man move. There was a low hum of metal and then a crack as one of Anastasia's high cheekbones shattered. She hardly had time to spit the blood from her mouth before the Soldat was there once again, grabbing her hair and yanking her up and around, and then there was a _crack_ and then a thud as Anastasia fell to the mats.

Natalia only spared Anastasia's wide, unseeing eyes the briefest glance.

She was far more interested in the Soldat, who paid the girl no mind, and simply stood tall and waited for his next order. Off to the side, Karpov smiled and said, "Next."

Katerina didn't even last half as long as Anastasia.

Anja had her skull cracked open against the Soldat's knee.

Malina failed to block a fist to her ribs thirty seconds in and choked on her own blood.

And Natalia watched. She noted each of their mistakes and planned her attack accordingly. The Soldat outmatched her in strength, and so she would use her speed and size to advantage. Keep moving. Always moving. No one had yet gotten close enough to put the Soldat on the defensive, and so she decided risk his strength to test his skill beyond the ability to strike fast and hard.

Natalia wanted to see if he could dance.

Tanya was the first to survive. She never occupied one space for more than second before she moved. Natalia took note and vowed to be even faster. She would be the first to land a hit on the Soldat.

"Widow Romanova."

Natalia stepped forward. She wasn't nervous. She thought that she should be and yet she felt only anticipation as she assumed her stance. She was ready. She had a plan. In the final seconds before Karpov called for them to begin, she let her eyes scour the Soldat for a weakness to exploit, something she may have missed. She was close enough to him now to notice that his eyes were a hard if blank steel blue. The stubble on his jaw was rough and a shade lighter than his hair that fell past his ears. His cheekbones were high, his lips full.

She imagined that he could lead a line of women into his bed if he only smiled.

But he didn't, and Karpov called, " _nachat'!"_

Natalia lunged. She moved faster than she ever had, and her punch was just barely batted away before it could land. The parry didn't bother her. She'd still forced him take a step back, to be defensive, and that was something that no one else had done. She continued her attack, dodging and weaving under his blows and dealing her own that he expertly countered. So he _was_ more than a fist.

Natalia was glad.

Even when that same fist crushed her ribs and sent her to the floor, she was glad. She ignored the pain and rolled onto her feet without hardly a pause. It was still not quick enough. The Soldat was there, and the following thirty seconds were the longest of her life. She hardly had time to breathe as she dodged and deflected his attacks, and by the time ten seconds were left, her whole body was aching. She gritted her teeth and kept her hands up.

She still hadn't landed a hit.

Nine seconds left.

She ducked under a punch and went for his legs. He blocked.

Seven seconds.

Punch to the sternum. Deflected.

Six seconds.

Her back met the mat hard enough to steal her breath.

Four seconds.

He went for a headlock, but she was faster. She threw her elbow back and had to fight a triumphant smile when she heard something crack.

Two seconds.

On the mats again.

One.

The Soldat's fist landed on the mat just where her head had been a half-second earlier. She heard the wooden planks give way but didn't react. She got to her feet with more difficulty than she would ever admit, but held her head high when she met Karpov's gaze. He smiled.

"Very good, Widow Romanova."

Three more girls failed the test before the end, and those that survived failed to land a hit against the Soldat, a fact that Natalia silently, proudly noted. She stood straight as Karpov and the Madame strode forward, though her ribs protested and her shoulders ached. Once she was allowed to shower, she'd be able to properly assess the damage, but nothing felt broken, which left her in a better position than Valentina, who was struggling to ignore her dislocated elbow.

Anastasia and the rest of the girls were hauled away by two soldiers out a side door. Natalia wondered if they'd be burned or buried and forgotten.

"Congratulations, Widows," Karpov said. "You have advanced to the final stage of the Black Widow Program. Russia is proud of its daughters. And," he added with a slight smile, "as a reward, you will each have your own quarters. You are dismissed for the day." He turned on his heel. "Soldat."

The Soldat followed without a word.

Natalia watched him go.

* * *

 **And there you go. I know this chapter is short, but some of the flashback chapters will be that way. I think of all the chapters that take place in the past as a timeline for all that Bucky is remembering. So, assume that with each past chapter, Bucky remembers what happened. It's illogical for him to remember things in linear order, but for a story, it definitely helps.**

 **Alrighty, preview for the next chapter . . . who should it be this time? . . . of course, it's 50/50 so . . . how about Nat?**

 **"Someone has to keep an eye on you. You're trouble."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Aaaannd we're back for another chapter! Again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. It's completely finished, so no need to fret over if I'll ever suddenly drop off the face of the earth. After all, I refuse not to reveal what I think happened in Budapest. God, I loved writing that.**

 **But that's a ways off, so let's focus on the present!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything Marvel or MCU related. Honestly. Cross my fingers.**

* * *

Chapter 3: Present

 _And as they continue to dance—because it's undoubtedly what they're doing, he thinks—a feeling of familiarity begins to creep up his spine. This give and take, the sweat and the strain, this is nothing new. Just forgotten._

 _But his body remembers. He begins to anticipate her moves in a different way. It's no longer about reading her body. It's about muscle memory. It's something in him knowing her style, her moves, better than his own. Then she leaps at him, and it's like they're still dancing but the song has changed. Their moves become lighter, more fluid as they both relax and fall into a familiar rhythm, and naturally, he thinks, that's when things go to shit . . ._

He's finally in the position to use his superior strength to his advantage. He has Natasha in a headlock, and that's when his mind slips, when he feels cold and empty, and his grip tightens.

He mustn't show favoritism. He must treat her like everyone else. Already, he is pushing what is acceptable. He'll leave her unconscious instead of killing her like he would another girl. When they ask he'll say it's because she shows the most promise. Not even Karpov can argue that.

Then suddenly he's on his back, head throbbing and ears ringing. Natasha sits on his chest with a knife at his throat, breathing hard, her neck red and bruising, but her eyes are wary and shell-shocked as she stares down at him. "What did you remember?" she asks, voice hoarse.

There's a handful of answers that spring to mind. He remembers the Red Room. He remembers Karpov. He remembers the way her body felt beneath his on the training mats. He remembers needing to break her. He remembers warmth.

But all he says is, "We've done this before. Did you . . .?"

Natasha swallows. "No."

He shifts slightly beneath her. "You gonna let me up, _moya balerinoy_?"

 _My ballerina._

Natasha stills, and her voice is suddenly sharp and cold. "Why did you call me that?"

"I don't know." He frowns, too, a tint of frustration in his voice. "It just . . . slipped out."

She gets off of him then, quick and graceful. "I need a shower," she says, and then disappears into the house, leaving him standing behind the cabin, dirty and grass-stained and sweating, with nothing but the damn forest animals and a pang of . . . _something_ . . . he doesn't understand for company.

"Fuck."

He stares at the cabin door for a long moment before he abruptly turns and begins to walk. Reconnaissance. A mission. That's what he needs. Anything other than feeling this goddamn twist in his gut.

The terrain is not as rough as he would expect for the mountains. Yet it feels right. He thinks he must have spent some time in the mountains. Maybe. The trees are tall, the leaves full. They rustle with each breeze and he's suddenly reminded of a sprawling green park. Central Park. New York.

There's a warm, if bittersweet feeling in his chest. Nostalgia. He wonders what's so special about New York. He is from Brooklyn, he remembers. He should look at Barnes's military records. It was stupid to ignore them. He decides he'll read them as soon as he returns to base.

Base. The cabin. Natasha.

 _Moya balerinoy._ My ballerina.

He doesn't know where the words came from, but he's grateful there are no feelings attached to them. He isn't sure how he'd deal with those. Just the words are confusing enough. My ballerina. My. _His_.

He doesn't have anything that's his. He has nothing. No possessions, no memories, no goddamn _name_. Yet he called her his.

He doesn't think she liked it. Certainly she would not have retreated so quickly if she hadn't cared. Care. Did she care? He thinks she must. It's the only way her reaction makes sense. Yet what had disturbed her more? Being called his or a ballerina?

James doesn't fully know it, but he secretly hopes that it's the latter. He wants something to be his. He needs something to be his.

He makes a five mile loop around the cabin. There are a few traps here and there, an abandoned storm cellar hiding a tunnel that he's willing to bet leads right under the cabin. Probably the coat closet. A small lookout point gives him a good view of the valley. There's a small town roughly thirty miles away, and it's only when the lights of the town begin to grow brighter that he realizes how much time has passed.

He still doesn't immediately turn back. He wonders if he should. Perhaps he should keep going, go somewhere far away—like he'd planned before he'd gotten . . . _distracted_ . . . by a redhead. James wonders for the first time just what had made him disregard all logic and follow her to that car in that abandoned lot, what had compelled him to slip into the passenger seat like they'd planned their extraction from D.C. from the start and were merely following through with their plan. He wonders about the long silences that didn't feel lonely and the subtle way she fiddled with the radio stations until she settled on a classics station that played songs that felt . . . safe.

He wonders about the feelings she seems to effortlessly, unintentionally provoke. He doesn't know what they mean, but they're different, and that difference is frightening yet strangely thrilling. And familiar. This entire situation, every fucking minute he's with her, trying to figure her out and failing, feels so goddamn familiar. Like he's tried before.

He wonders if he succeeded. He wonders if that still means something now, sixty years later.

He's too old for this shit.

He almost cracks a smile as he realizes that he finally has the capacity to _realize_ that he _is_ old. Age had never mattered to the Soldier. All that mattered was that he was fit for the mission. He doesn't actually feel old, he thinks. It's the years that he feels. He barely remembers anything of his long life, either as Barnes or the Soldier, but with each minute that passes now that his mind is truly _his_ , he feels the weight of all those years slowly but steadily rest on his shoulders. And it's strange to feel so tired and yet inexplicably strong and youthful at the same time.

As he continues to stare at the glowing lights of the town nestled below in the valley, James wonders if Natasha feels the same disconnect between what is true and what is real. The idea of anyone understanding him is startling. He doesn't think that feeling will ever fade, though he isn't sure whether it's due to Natasha or simply interacting with another person beyond a mission or a debrief. Having company is odd. He's never alone unless he chooses to be, and that is so very different from being alone until someone decides he's not to be.

Such little decisions that are now his to make. Perhaps that is why he's hesitant to go back to the cabin. He has such freedom here in this moment, and he wants to savor it. He doesn't want to think that he may in fact be hiding from Natasha, that maybe he's hesitant to return because he isn't sure he's welcome, maybe he's afraid to be rejected. Maybe he's fucking terrified that he's already so attached to companionship, to having someone fucking _be_ there—no, it's her, it's the fact that it's _her_ , his ballerina with her steady green eyes and mischievous little smirk—maybe he now has yet another thing to lose.

And this time he won't have the twisted comfort of forgetting.

James stares at the little town below, its lights now bright yellow against the darkness, and plans. He could hike down and arrive by morning. Steal a car with out of state plates from some cheap motel parking lot. Make it over the border by evening. Perhaps secure a flight to Europe the next day. Leave that night. Not even thirty-six hours, and he could be gone. Free. His own man with his own memories with his own time.

It'd be so damn easy.

When he reaches the cabin he pauses to watch a thin twirl of smoke curl toward the sky from the chimney. The two windows seem to glow like bright yellow eyes, much harsher than the gentle firefly flickers of the town. Inside, Natasha waits on the couch, legs tucked beneath her and tangled in an old afghan. She absently turns a page in her book as she casts glances at the back door, unaware that James is hesitating on the other side, hand hovering over the door knob.

She shouldn't have reacted to his . . . endearment? Can a name be endearing if the memory of it is lost? Natasha isn't sure, but she knows that it struck something inside her, plucked a string in her heart that she hadn't known was there. Her days as a ballerina were . . . complicated. Real yet not. Haunting yet sweet.

Undoubtedly, though, those days were supposed to be _hers_. Just hers.

Now they weren't. Somehow, James knew.

And Natasha isn't sure how she feels about that, but she does know that she doesn't want James to leave. She wants him to stay. She wants him to come back.

But she's not going to go after him. Absolutely not. She's not that . . . romantic. Or pathetic. Or insecure. No, she's . . . she's just Natasha Romanoff, and Natasha Romanoff does not run after men. They can make their own goddamn decisions.

Even if they're stupid.

Even if she thinks it would be better if he stayed.

For him.

And for her.

But she won't force James to make a decision. He needs to make it on his own, whatever it is. She won't ever take that freedom from him. Not when she knows how precious it is.

So she watches the door out of the corner of her eye as she tries to read the next page of some insipid romance she picked up at the gas station. After another ten minutes pass, she gives up the pretense entirely and gets up to add another log to the fire and heat a kettle for tea. She sets aside the honey as she waits for the kettle to whistle, and rips the foil off one of the many candy bars she has sitting on top of the refrigerator.

She's pouring her tea and halfway through her second candy bar when James finally comes through the door. Though her heart seems to throb with relief, she only smiles slightly and says, "Sorry about earlier. You caught me off guard. Tea?"

James stares at her for a moment but she doesn't meet his gaze, casually continuing to fix two mugs of tea. He sits at the table and decides to wait her out, unaware that Natasha has already decided to do the same as she makes tea, and so there's silence between them until the tea is ready and Natasha sits one of the mugs in front of him. She curls into the chair opposite his, propping her mug up on her knee as she meets his gaze and pointedly takes a drink.

She smiles into her second sip when James mirrors her action without any of the hesitation he'd shown a day earlier. They sit and drink their tea in silence, quietly observing the other even as James keeps his eyes trained on the flames dancing in the fireplace and Natasha pretends to read once again. When James drains his mug, he says, "I can't remember the last time I had tea."

Natasha smirks. "You can't be surprised."

He blinks in shock, and perhaps . . . amusement. Yes, amusement. "Guess not," he admits.

"Do you like it?"

"It's good."

"That's the honey. A little recipe I picked up in Kathmandu."

James looks away from the fire. His eyes settle on hers. "I remember training you," he says. "It's . . . foggy. There were other girls. I killed them. They were weak. But not you."

It's an olive branch. A spy's version of one, anyway. He's offered information, and she's expected to return the favor. It's the only way James knows to get information, and Natasha is glad to fall into an old routine. It takes the emotion out of what she reveals in trade.

"I was a ballerina," she says simply. "It was my cover in the Red Room. They gave me memories of a whole other life." Her smile is bittersweet. "I remember taking lessons. I remember every pirouette, every plié. I remember having a fiancé, Alexi. And I remember him dying, and I remember willingly entering the Red Room to avenge him." She tilts her head. "Traded in one skill set for another." Her eyes pierce him. "I've never told anyone that. It's in my file, but I've never told anyone."

"You told me."

"Apparently."

"I guess it made sense, then."

"I think it makes sense now." James frowns but Natasha doesn't elaborate and rises from the table, leaving him to wonder what exactly she meant as she crosses into the living room and retrieves a notebook from the coffee table. "I went out while you were taking your walk," she says as she returns to the table. "I thought it might help."

She slides a plain black notebook toward him. James stares at it for a moment before his eyes flicker back up to hers. Natasha thinks she sees a flash of gratitude in his eyes behind the confusion that she's once again done something thoughtful, something kind. She remembers the patience Clint showed her and tries to summon the little smile he'd always given her that she had never found a lie. "Writing it down helped me keep things straight," she says. "And it's not a bad backup plan."

 _If you lose your memories again._

James knows that he needs to do something to reciprocate her kindness. There's a give and take here that he's forgotten. He has nothing to trade, nothing to give in return, but he's so damn grateful and relieved to know that someone _understands_. He looks up at her, and she's got this little smile on her lips that he believes without question. That should unsettle him but he finds comfort in it, some semblance of trust, and that feeling is worth any consequences.

"Thank you," he says, and his chest swells when Natasha's smile grows a bit wider. "Got a pen?"

They each stay up late into the night. Natasha makes soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, a skill that she's mastered due to her many experiences of dealing with sick Barton children. She burns the crusts slightly out of habit because that's how Cooper likes it best and little Ava worships him too much to protest. There's only a second of hesitation when she sets the plate on the table, and James stares at the slight black edges of his sandwich, and she wonders if she managed to fuck up a simple grilled cheese, but then James devours it in three bites and she's no longer worried.

. . . And maybe a bit pleased.

She orders him to dry the dishes as she washes them, and he obeys the order without pause. They develop a good system, but she notices that James seems to have a subconscious memory of doing such menial tasks, because he always double checks the dishes after he dries them, as if checking to make sure they'd been properly cleaned. It almost makes Natasha snort until she remembers showing Steve how his dishwasher worked and the look of utter relief and sheepish joy that flooded his face.

She does snort then, happy to know that the Great and Good Steve Rogers is terrible at something as simple as dishwashing.

James casts a sidelong look at her, but she just chuckles as she hands him another plate.

He retreats to the kitchen table once their task is done and glances at his file that Natasha had placed there as soon as the table had been cleaned, as if she'd known exactly how he would spend his night, but she surprises him when instead of retreating to the couch (despite the book in her hand) she sits at the kitchen table with him and glances at his file. "You didn't read your military records," she says.

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn't want to," she offers with a shrug before smirking slightly, "and the pages haven't been handled."

"You snooped through my file?"

"Old habits."

His lips twitch. He isn't sure why her eavesdropping amuses him instead of infuriates him, but that warm feeling in his chest is back as he stares across the table at her. "You assessing me, _malen'kiy pauk?"_ he challenges.

 _Little spider._

Neither react to the endearment because neither notices. James isn't aware of the words leaving his lips, and Natasha isn't aware of hearing them—the sort of thing that one expects from two people who know each other intimately and take such things for granted. Natasha smiles. "Someone has to keep an eye on you," she says. "You're trouble."

"You like trouble."

She shrugs. "Keeps life interesting," her smirk falls into something understanding as she looks once again at his file. "Afraid of what you'll find?"

James stares at the file. "I'm not him."

"But you were once."

"I can't go back."

"No one's asking you to do that, James."

He looks up at her name for him. _James_. He doesn't mind the name. It holds no meaning to him, but he doesn't mind it. It's better than Barnes. He hasn't been a Sergeant in decades. And it's sure as hell better than Bucky. He's not . . . he's not _him_. The friend, the brother, the war hero. That's not him.

But _James_ . . . _James_ is safe. _James_ doesn't come with expectations.

"Look, you either read it or you don't," Natasha says. "But you and I both know you will. Who knows, maybe some things will start to make sense."

She leaves him then, going up stairs into her bedroom and leaving him to himself. He appreciates it. Looking through _this_ file feels so damn personal even if he barely recognizes a word of it. He doesn't waste any more time hesitating. He opens the file and begins to read. He takes stock of each mission report, every sniper shot he ever took. He learns more about his life before the war—how he'd grown up in Brooklyn, graduated top of his class, worked at the docks. He's the oldest of four with three younger sisters—a thought that still manages to make him shudder despite the fact that he doesn't even remember one of them. His mother was Helen Buchanan. His father was Lieutenant Thomas Barnes who died from alcohol when James was a teenager. Untreated shell shock, the file says.

The file paints Bucky Barnes as a tough kid who grew up too fast, who learned early to survive and protect. A likeable guy with a ready smile too loyal for his own good. But James sees beneath it. He sees the steel beneath the smile, the fierce set of his shoulders in a picture with his sisters. And he sees . . . resemblance. There's something there beneath it all that he recognizes as him.

It hits him then that he _is_ Bucky Barnes.

He just isn't _that_ Bucky Barnes. The one in the file. The one touched by war but not consumed by it. The one who hasn't been weaponized and used and _wiped_. No, he's a different Bucky. An older one, a haunted one, a _lost_ one.

James thinks that's even worse.

He spends hours taking notes, writing it down in his notebook, adding bits of feelings and random thoughts that may be memories. He isn't sure he cares either way. Writing it down feels constructive, and he writes until it's three in the morning and he has nothing left to say or remember.

When he sleeps, he dreams of screams and bullets and red.

Bright, scarlet red.

* * *

 **Aaannddd, we're done here. This chapter was very internal, I know, but I just loved trying to get into Bucky's head as he tried to work out . . . well, everything. Plus, this helps set up the foundation of finding his identity again, and to do that, he needs to know who he was. Next, chapter is fun! We've got a Natalia Romanova with a plan that involves our favorite Soldat. :)**

 **So, let's see . . . who gives our itsy spoiler this time? Aha! James, it is . . . and forgive me for this one . . .** **"Hail HYDRA."**

 ***hides from an angry Steve Rogers***

 **See you Friday!**

 **Lot's of love,**

 **AC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: And we're back for another chapter! Thank you, again, to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. Once again, we're taking a trip to the past. Let's get the Soldier/Natalia ship sailing, hmm?**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything Marvel related. Nope, not me.**

* * *

Chapter 4: Past

Karpov stood in the back corner of the room, a red leather-bound journal open in his hands as he occasionally wrote down his observations. The journal was embossed with a Soviet star, just like the one on the Soldat's metal arm, and Natalia wondered just what the journal contained. If she could get her hands on it, perhaps she could find an advantage against her newest instructor. Training was brutal and invigorating. She regarded each sprain and bruise as a mark of progress and yet a reminder to do better. The Soldat was a good instructor.

He was skilled. Powerful and quick. And smart. Natalia thought that was a trait that everyone seemed to overlook. The Soldat was one of the smartest men in any room, and yet no one, especially Karpov, seemed to know or care. It made Natalia suspicious. In fact, everything about the Soldat made her suspicious.

Well, curious, really.

He was inhumanly disciplined. Every order followed without hesitation, almost without recognition. Mindless. And it didn't make sense to Natalia how that could be, how a man could be so mindless and yet so incredibly clever. She watched him as he trained the others, as she stood to the side and waited her turn. She watched him analyze every little tick, every minuscule twitch of muscle. He was aware of every movement in the room, and she watched him track everyone even as he beat his current trainee.

It was more than observation. Anyone can observe. It was the subtle way he reacted that let Natalia know there was a brain in his skull, a brain that made connections fast. Whenever the Madame entered the room, he grew just the slightest bit gentler with the trainees. Natalia doubted anyone but her could see the slight restraint, and she also doubted that Karpov realized the Soldat was doing it strictly to make the Madame happier (since it implied her Widows were progressing), which would make her amiable to any of Karpov's requests, which last week had involved a weapons upgrade to the Soldat's entire arsenal. Natalia had seen him appreciate the new sniper rifle. His examination was entirely tactical and yet she sensed something of a caress in the way he ran his fingers along the barrel.

For all of the Soldat's mechanized habits, there was something human lurking beneath it all, and Natalia Romanova had never been so intrigued in her life.

"Romanova," the Soldat called sharply, and she snapped to attention, bowing her head before she stepped onto the mats.

The Soldat's answer was to launch an attack, but this was expected. The Soldat never exchanged pleasantries. His only job was to train the Widows, and so that was what he did. Karpov wanted them broken and made stronger, and so that was what the Soldat would do. Within just three weeks, he had managed to break every trainee except one.

Romanova.

She was . . . different.

She was better.

He tried every trick he knew, and while he beat her just as viciously as he did the rest, she always got back up. And there was something about that simple act, about getting to her feet and putting up her hands when all common sense told her to stay down, that the Soldat . . . admired. It was refreshing. It was different. It was new.

 _She_ was refreshing. _She_ was different. _She_ was new.

And he pushed her. Harder than the rest. He knew she could take it.

Natalia ducked a powerful swing that was nothing but a blur of silver to her eyes but still found herself on the mat in the next second, entirely unsure of how she'd gotten there. She cursed under her breath, voice full of frustration and annoyance at her own weakness. The Soldat felt his lips twitch.

"Eще раз," he said.

 _Again_.

She looked up at him in surprise as he waited for her to get up. It was an allowance that he had never made before, and she wondered what had caused him to break his pattern. In the background, she could hear Karpov's pen scratching against his journal. "Never go for the obvious strike," he said, switching to English as he often did. Natalia thought the words sounded easier in his American accent. "If you see it, so will they, and they will be waiting for it. Be smarter, Romanova."

Natalia nodded her head sharply and got to her feet despite the way every fiber of her being ached. In the brief silence before the Soldat attacked once again, she studied him. There was something different about him today. He had never given advice before, trusting the Widows to either learn through pain or die trying. She didn't understand how she was any different, what had made him break is pattern, and it only intrigued her further.

If she were particularly bold, she'd think that she was becoming a teacher's pet. It wasn't a place she wanted to be. She had always avoided the spotlight. She was a survivor. She was a spy. Spies were meant to be invisible. Being invisible was how she had survived.

But perhaps . . . perhaps she could work this to her advantage. Perhaps it was time to make her move into the spotlight, to draw attention to herself. There were only five Widows left in the program, and she was determined to be the last. If she could form a relationship with the Soldat, it could only benefit her. She could bargain for more training. Special attention. Attention and skills denied the rest.

Natalia had just enough time to make that assessment and feel firm in her resolve before she was forced to deflect the Soldat's next volley of attacks. She dodged and spun—twirled really—around the Soldat. Fighting was like ballet in so many ways, and she had always been a brilliant dancer. The Soldat was a good partner, every step, every beat, firm and sure. The choreography was harsh, nearly cruel, yet when Natalia landed a kick to the Soldat's jaw and received a brutal punch in return, anyone who bothered to truly look at the pair would have seen a relationship developing that was founded not in violence but in a mutual, growing respect.

The saving grace for the Soldat and Natalia was that no one bothered to look.

And so the next time Natalia was laying on the mats, defeated yet again, Karpov didn't notice how his Soldat smiled through his eyes when the Widow Romanovna pushed herself to her feet despite her bruised ribs, a sprained right wrist, and a twinging right knee and said, with a dark, challenging smile, "Eще раз."

* * *

Natalia chose her timing carefully, artfully managing her time so that she was last Widow left in the training room with only Karpov and the Soldat for company. She purposefully caught the Soldat's eyes when she confidently strode toward him, cataloging the slight curious raise of a single eyebrow. Another new tick. The Soldat was full of surprises today.

Karpov eyed her with mild curiosity. "Yes?" he prompted as she stood before him like a soldier at ease.

"I would like to make a request, General." She glanced at the Soldat. "If the Soldat would be amendable."

Karpov's lips quirked in amusement. "And that would be?"

"I would be grateful if I could be granted more time with the Soldat for personalized training," she said. "I believe that such training would allow for greater progress in my skills."

"You have already made considerable strides."

"I could make even greater strides if I did not have to share his time with four other girls." Natalia allowed her lips to curve in a slight, teasing smirk.

And Karpov smiled indulgently just as she'd suspected he would. "Are you sure that is your reasoning behind this, ah, alone time with my Soldat? Perhaps you are thinking of enhancing a _particular_ set of skills? He is handsome, no?"

Natasha made of show of glancing at the Soldat out of the corner of her eye. "Really?" she quipped. "I hadn't noticed."

Karpov laughed as if it was all a lovely joke, taking Natalia's bold assertions as those of overconfidence instead of tactful. "Fine," he said. "You may meet here tomorrow night for an hour."

Natasha gave him a close-lipped smile. "Thank you, General."

"Dismissed, Widow Romanova."

The Soldat watched as Romanova left the room, an extra sway in her step in victory, and he wasn't sure how he felt. Confused. Curious. What did she think she had to gain? The training was obvious, but he sensed there was more to it than that, and it . . . intrigued him. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with someone so unpredictable. Karpov made no secrets of his thoughts and desires. The guards were open, and frequently talked around him as if he could not hear which of the little Widows they wished to fuck or how much Petrov owed Krupin from their last game of cards. The Soldat was invisible.

And so was Romanova.

Which was why the Soldat did not understand why she was choosing to draw attention to herself now.

"Soldat."

Karpov started for the doors, trusting that the Soldat would follow, and he did. The Soldat walked silently through the halls, hanging back behind Kaprov like a menacing shadow, giving no thought toward the soldiers they passed. They had long stopped giving him questioning, ascertaining looks. The fear and awe and mystery had passed once they realized that he was nothing to admire. He was a tool for HYDRA. Nothing more.

And so they treated him like they would a shiny new toy that a child had grown tired of.

The Soldat didn't care. He preferred it. He was more efficient alone.

"The girl," Karpov suddenly spoke. "Romanova. Assessment."

"She is capable," he replied immediately. "Quick. Deceptive."

"Is there chance for growth?"

"She is stronger than the others."

Karpov nodded. "Good," he said. "Break her."

"Yes, General."

"Take this." He held out a file he'd held with his journal. "You have a mission, Soldat. Dmitri Kozlov, 34. He was a HYDRA scientist until we lost the war and has since turned against us. He feeds information to America from one of our research facilities in Austria. Kill him. Make it . . . theatrical."

"You want to make a statement."

"I do, Soldat. And you shall make it for me. Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA."

* * *

 **Gah, having Bucky say "Hail HYDRA" will never not make me squirm. Ick.**

 **Moving on! This one is short, I know, but most of the past chapters are like that, though this is the shortest one by far.**

 **Okay, preview, preview . . . again, it's only 50/50 so . . . Natasha! - "I didn't like that table anyway."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: Sorry, I'm a little late with the posting! Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel. Promise. Not making any money here.**

* * *

Chapter 5: Present

 _Mission Report. May 18_ _th_ _, 1956. Two HYDRA deserters found in remote Austrian village. Marcus Schultz: Dead. Dmitri Kozlov: Dead. S. had daughter. Shopped in market. Bought apples. Don't know what happened to the girl._

 _Mission Report. September 3_ _rd_ _, 1988. Target eliminated._

 _Mission Report. January 22_ _nd_ _, 1962. Target: Matthew Brady. Status: Dead._

 _Mission Report. March 17_ _th_ _, 1971. Blonde woman. Mid 20s. Strangled._

 _Mission Report . . ._

 _Mission Report . . ._

 _Mission . . ._

 _Mis . . ._

The pen breaks.

James tosses the broken pen away with a scowl before burying his face in his hands and sighing. He lets his hands slide through his hair, tugging harder than he should like it's a pisspoor punishment. But then should he be punished? He isn't sure.

Regaining his memories is much easier than he expected. Mostly they come to him in dreams, and it's funny to him, in a morbid way, that while he hopes that the dreams of blood and death and torture are real memories, there's a part of him that is desperate for some details to just be twisted nightmares. Some random, macabre fantasy. Not real.

It's as though he can stomach killing Marcus Schultz, but thinking of the man's abandoned daughter makes him want to hurl. The death is easy. Killing doesn't faze him. There's a deep acceptance of death in his bones. People live, and people die. James thinks that's a lesson he learned and accepted long ago.

It's the consequences of killing that leave him uneasy. It's the faces of those left behind to grieve that keep him awake at night, tossing and turning and then pacing when his back grows tired of the marshmallow-like couch cushions. It's the grief that is steadily, viciously, haunting him. And it's confusing as hell.

Grief, regret . . . these aren't feelings that he remembers. He doesn't know them, doesn't understand how he can so easily accept killing—surely the morally worse offence—and yet fight back tears anytime he so much as pictures the big, doe-brown eyes of Schultz's daughter as she pulls on her daddy's sleeve to buy her an apple. The girl lived, didn't she? He didn't kill _her_. Why should she make him so damn upset?

He doesn't understand.

He wasn't . . . he wasn't _programmed_ for this.

The thought sends his emotions into a tailspin, and he's abruptly so full of rage that it's all he can do to channel it into a roar and a punch. His fist comes down like a guillotine onto the tabletop, splitting the wood in a spray of splinters and dust and leaving him comically sitting stone still at a broken table when Natasha rushes in from the mud room where she'd been sorting her whites and darks.

She takes in the scene with a quick, critical eye just as she would any potentially dangerous situation. And yes, Natasha is well-aware that that is precisely what she's gotten herself into. Oh, yes, she's playing with fire brining the Winter Soldier here, and she knows it. The one time she gives into her feelings instead of logic—of _course_ , this is what she gets: A half-sane assassin with Alzheimer's.

She can't predict his thoughts or his actions. She doesn't even have the benefit of knowing who he was before HYDRA sunk their claws into him. Natasha Romanoff is running on nothing but instinct and a far-flung prayer to a God she isn't sure she believes in, and goddammit, she _really_ wishes she could call Clint.

"I didn't like that table anyway," she says as she tries her damnedest to seem casual and not as if her fingers are ready to reach for the Berretta lying in the rubble, still partially wrapped in the tape that had kept it concealed underneath the tabletop. James doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to breathe. Why can't he breathe? His hand fists in his shirt over his heart. Jesus Christ, why is his chest so damn tight? Poison? No. Bullet? No blood.

"What's—" He gasps, eyes wide. "What's wrong with me?"

"You're having a panic attack, James." Natasha cautiously moves toward him, the rubble of the table crunching under her feet, until she's kneeling on the floor and a splinter is digging into her left knee. She ignores it and gently places a hand behind James's head. "Put your head between your knees, _soldat_ ," she says, giving him a gentle pull until he shudders and complies. "Good. Now, I need you to breathe deeply, James." She leans forward until her forehead rests on his shoulder. "Breathe with me, okay?"

James latches onto her voice first. It's soft and lulling, gently seductive in the way it immediately soothes a part of his mind. He's able to grasp her words then. Breathe. He needs to breathe. "Natalia," he gasps, a plea in his voice that's beyond his control. And though neither are aware of it, there's a singular note of pain in the way James caresses Natasha's name that can only come from a deep love and a terrible loss. "Natalia."

Natasha shushes him. "You're not breathing, _soldat_ ," she says. "Breathe with me."

She takes a deep breath, and she's so close to him that he can feel her lungs expand against him. It's only then that he realizes he's put his arms around her. "That's it, darling." Natasha doesn't recognize her voice. She's never been able to coo. "In and out. Just follow me."

James follows her. He breathes with her until he realizes the pattern. Inhale for five seconds. Hold for two. Then exhale for five. Deep breaths. The light-headedness fades first, and he thoughtlessly turns his face into Natasha's neck as they continue to breathe together. When his pulse has returned to a normal rhythm, Natasha doesn't immediately move. This is as close as she's been to James that hasn't involved a fight. This is the exact opposite of a fight. This is vulnerability. A quiet, soft, special kind of intimacy.

There's an initial feeling of curiosity that causes her fingers to sift through his hair, followed by a flicker of pleasure at such closeness, and that's when her brain kicks into gear and she's appropriately uneasy. She doesn't _feel_ like this. So . . . soft. Weak.

Natasha pulls back, and the small distance might as well be an ocean. James blinks, unknowingly cycling through the very same emotions, until he leans back even further. "We good?" Natasha asks.

He nods. "Yeah."

"Good."

James looks at the table. "Sorry," he says, unaware it's the first time he's felt the need to apologize in decades, "about the table."

Natasha smirks. "I told you. I never really liked it. But you realize what this means." James stares at her. "You get to help me pick out a new one."

Which meant leaving the cabin, which meant dealing with people, people who needed to believe he was normal and unassuming and _not_ a terrorist.

Right.

"Sounds fair," he admits.

"Excellent. We'll leave in ten."

James nods once in assent, and Natasha heads for the stairs. Once the door to her bedroom shuts quietly behind her, he sighs deeply, leaning forward with his head in his hands. He breathes on his own for a whole minute, remembering how warm Natasha had felt against him and how soothing her voice had sounded in his ear. He's unsettled by how pleasant it felt to have her near like that. Sparring he can handle. It's so ingrained, so normal, damn near domestic by his standards. But this had been . . . personal.

He'd called her Natalia.

Taking one last deep breath, he gets to his feet and retrieves his notebook from the table pieces, brushing off splinters and dust as he walks toward the kitchen counter. He opens the drawer closest to the back door and pulls out a new pen. Flipping through the pages, he finds where he had been writing and makes two notes:

* _They're called panic attacks. Symptoms: hyperventilation, light-headedness, tight chest. Breathe deeply. 5-2-5 count. Brought on by intense emotion. Regret._

 _*You call her Natalia._

He puts the notebook and the pen back in the drawer, takes another deep breath, and then grabs his jacket from the coat rack. Natasha comes down the stairs as he's pulling on his leather glove, hair in a sleek ponytail and lip gloss in her hand. Her lips twitch when she sees him waiting, and though James searches every minute detail of her expression, he doesn't find any hint of the softness she'd shown minutes earlier.

Her mask is back in place.

He's simultaneously relived and disappointed and entirely unable to explain why.

It's a thirty minute drive into town, but Natasha makes it in twenty. Corvette or no Corvette (how she misses her precious baby) she'll always see speed limits as suggestions. Not to mention the fact that it's incredibly gratifying to finally have a man in her passenger seat that isn't clutching the door handle in restrained fear or spouting off things like, _But it's the law, Nat_.

Honestly, Clint should trust her by now, and Steve can be such a mother hen.

But James almost has a smile on his face as she takes a turn just fast enough, and she grins freely as she puts even more pressure on the gas.

They pull into an antiques shop on the main drag, and James is grateful that it's the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. Most people are at work instead of shopping, and so he relaxes slightly as he eases out of the car. From behind her sunglasses, Natasha catalogues the way his shoulders loosen and inwardly nods in satisfaction like a proud handler even if she dislikes the comparison and what it implies. But there's a safety in the distance it provides, and she's still reeling from their moment in kitchen.

It's nothing she hasn't done before. Not really. She's had her fair share of panic attacks. So has Clint. So has Steve. Only Clint learned long ago how to control them, and Steve, though he hadn't known what they were just as James hadn't, fell back into old habits from the days when he'd had asthma. Natasha had never really had to _help_.

She's never had to coach Clint or Steve to breathe with her. She's never had to hold them. She's never had to speak so softly and be so gentle. And that's not the scary part. That's not what disturbs her. It's the fact that she hadn't _needed_ to be so soft or so gentle. She could have remained firm and calmly given instructions. She could have been clinical. Professional.

But she'd disregarded that without a thought. James had been in pain, and she'd just . . . crumpled. She'd become someone soft. Someone gentle and coaxing. Reassuring. _Open_.

She's Natasha Romanoff. She isn't _open_.

It's with these thoughts in her head that she snags James's hand as they step onto the sidewalk. He glances at her, but she pretends to be unaware and tows him toward the doors of the antique shop. It has that old smell to it, a mixture of age, paper, and furniture polish that always makes her feel her age. She lets her eyes dance over each little cubicle. Most of it is junk, but she goes through a stack of records out of habit. She finds the Beatles' White album and wordlessly hands it to James. "Steve likes them," she explains. "He has it all on his iPod, but he's a bit of a snob about how we listen to our music these days. Insists it sounds better on a record. I indulge him."

James glances at the cover and frowns. "What's an iPod?"

"It's a small storage device that can hold thousands of songs," Natasha recites easily. "You can carry it with you in your pocket and listen to your music whenever you want." She glances at him. "We can get you one."

"It's not necessary."

"There are a lot of people who would argue that," she says but then shrugs. "But there's plenty of time for me to change your mind."

They fall into a not-quite-easy silence as Natasha scans for a suitable table. She finally finds one tucked in the back of the store, nearly invisible under a pile of candlesticks, a large bowl of potpourri, and a dozen old Mickey Mouse placemats splayed out like cards on a Vegas gambling table. Natasha knocks on the wood. Solid. "Cherry," she declares. "Good. I like that better than maple." She glances at the bright pink price tag and scoffs. "We'll fix that."

James stands back and watches Natasha artfully haggle over the price with an old woman in a flower-printed dress. He's amused by it all as he watches her cycle through persona after persona in order to get what she wants, going from coolly calculated to charming to funny and then finally settling on a stunning combination of mischief and shyness as she glances back at him with a blush on her cheeks and a giggle and then explains that they "broke" their last table and likely will break this one before too long.

So could she cut them a deal since they'd likely be back?

James doesn't like the appraising, appreciative look that the old woman gives him, and he pretends not to hear her launch into a story about her torrid love affair during the war with an English private. She swears she "has never walked the same again" and "misses him so dearly" and "some parts more than others" and he has to endure Natasha's little smirks and giggles as she keeps glancing at him and the brief flashes of memory that start to play behind his eyes.

 _He climbed through her window, hair wet with melting snow. Natalia leapt into his arms with a wide smile and bright eyes. Her arms wound around his neck as he guided her legs around his waist, her skin hot beneath his hands._

" _You came," she said._

And then the picture fades away and he's left with only her voice echoing in his mind, soft like it had been in the kitchen. He doesn't know if it's the same moment or another, but he doesn't think it matters. Not when he remembers so clearly the wonder and the excitement and the thread of defiance in her voice.

" _You shouldn't be here. They'll kill you if they find out."_

He remembers chuckling. _"Worth it."_

"James? James?"

He blinks as the pressure of her hand in his increases. He manages a smile. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says. "Daydreamin'."

Natasha's eyes narrow even as she smirks. "Good ones, I hope."

He squeezes her hand to reassure her that he's not about to snap or God forbid, have another panic attack. Of course, he doesn't really _feel_ reassured, necessarily. Nor does he know whether or not his new memories are _good_. They just give him more to think about.

Because as Natasha looks up at him, older and guarded and scarred, he suddenly sees her younger and softer, somehow still innocent in a way she is no longer, and it . . . hurts.

He feels like he's lost something he doesn't even remember having.

He sees the old lady watching them over Natasha's shoulder and summons a smirk. And it's so slick, so charming, that Natasha blinks in surprise and feels herself automatically smirking in return. Because she recognizes that smirk. It's eerily like hers, but roguish instead of sly, with mischief twinkling in his eyes. And Natasha suddenly, vividly understands Steve's many stories about Bucky making girls fall for him with just a look while he, gangly Steve, shook his head and tried to keep track of their names for when Bucky would inevitably try to wrangle a double date.

"I'll show you later," he promises.

A creaky giggle behind them causes Natasha to whirl and remember they aren't alone. "So," she says. "About the table?"

They get the table for half of what it's marked, and James gets the great honor of carrying it out to the car and then flipping it on top of the roof of the car before tying it down with rope. When Natasha comes outside, she appraises him as he leans against the passenger door. She unlocks the car, but it's once they're both seated and headed back toward the cabin that she glances over at James, whose gaze has been pinned on the passing scenery since she put the car in drive.

"So," she says. "What did you remember?"

James stiffens. "Nothing." Natasha hums. "It wasn't important."

"Lie."

"Leave it alone, Natalia."

Natasha's hands tighten on the wheel. "You remember."

He looks away from the window but doesn't let his eyes stray to hers. Not directly. He stares forward. "Pieces," he says.

Pieces. What a shit answer. It's not what Natasha wants. She wants details. She _needs_ details. Nearly a month at the cabin with James, and she hasn't remembered a single thing. Her dreams have been reruns of her time in the Red Room, beautifully preserved thanks to the serum, leaving her waking in a sweat at least once a night, and despite her vivid memory, she's still missing _pieces_.

She's managed to identify them—those shadowy parts of her memory that she had never really noticed. They were so subtle, so small. She understands how she'd missed them. Yet identifying the holes in her memory seemed to be getting her no closer to actually _remembering_ them.

"Well, then you're ahead of me," she says, a cynical, frustrated twist to her words.

James frowns at her tone and finally looks at her, taking in the tightness around her eyes and the way her hands briefly flex on the wheel. She's angry, he realizes. At herself or at him, he doesn't know (or care) but it's the fact that she's upset that . . . bothers him. He sees her in his mind's eye once again, young and beaming at him, and his chest tightens in a way that's strangely pleasant and distinctly uncomfortable at the exact same time.

"I think I used to sneak into your room," he says, glancing cautiously toward her, waiting to see if she'll meet his gaze. Natasha keeps her eyes on the road. James doesn't let that stop him. "You were young."

"Relatively."

"You were young," he repeats. "You were happy to see me, almost like you hadn't expected me to show." Natasha hums, and James let's his eyes drop to the console between them. "You jumped into my arms, and I just held you there."

Natasha blinks away the innocent picture in her mind, imperceptivity swallowing it down like it might choke her if she let it. "How romantic," she says. "Anything else?"

"The next one was just voices," he says dismissively.

"Whose?"

"Yours . . . and mine."

"What did I say?"

His lips twitch against his will. "You told me that if they found me with you, they'd kill me."

"What did you say?"

Somehow, he isn't sure how, James finds the gumption to meet her eyes, and Natasha senses that there's something different in his gaze, something demanding, and so she finally looks at him. She sees the confusion in his eyes, knows that he isn't sure how he feels about his new memories, but in this, he's still unbelievably certain as he says, "I said that you were worth it."

Natasha stares at him for a second longer before she abruptly looks away, numb to his revelation for the sake of her sanity—because goddammit, no one said that to her, not like _that_ , meaning it like _that_ —and spends the rest of the drive to the cabin trying to unhear James's words. When they pull up in front of the cabin, she cuts the engine and goes inside, leaving him to get the table.

James lets her go.

He cleans up the broken table in the kitchen, breaking it into small pieces and putting the fireplace to use as night falls and the temperature drops to a cool fifty degrees. Natasha comes downstairs once the fire is crackling softly and picks up her book she'd left on the coffee table the night before. He remains at their new table, notebook open, and a pen in hand. Neither say a word, but the silence speaks for itself.

Things had changed.

* * *

 **Well, there you go. Muhahaha.**

 **No time for a special preview! I've got a big lecture to go to!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: Helloooo, we are back again for the next installment. Super pumped. This is where the story (in the past) really sort of kicks off, and I'm excited for you guys' reactions!**

 **Also, thanks again to everyone who's reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. You're awesome.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Really. Stop making me repeat myself.**

* * *

Chapter 6: Past

Natalia had always had the strange thought that if she hadn't chosen to pursue ballet, she would have made a marvelous thief.

The Red Room was very strict in regards to rations. Often they were withheld as punishment, and only once had Natalia ever gone to bed hungry. It had been an awful experience, one that had made her stomach curl with anger and resentment and a deep, burning need to see that it never happened again. So ever since that day, Natalia Romanova had stolen food whenever the opportunity presented itself. She kept it neatly, discreetly out of sight in a small pocket of her mattress that she had painstakingly cut with a nail she'd pried not from the floorboard (far too obvious) but from the baseboard.

Stealing was all about deflection and quick hands. Natalia had both in spades, and so it took little effort for her to concoct a little distraction that gave her the perfect opportunity to snatch an extra apple from the basket sitting so enticingly on the counter. Walking just a bit fast to make Tanya step a bit too far in front of her, Natalia watched as the girl caught her toe on a pesky floorboard that always warped when winter came, and stumbled into Mariska, who had a temper, and then hastily moved out of the way when she instantly turned and attacked.

And as she leapt out of the way, Natalia just so happened to end up right in front of that basket of apples.

She hid the apple in her pant leg, perched precariously between her shin and the tongue of her sneaker, and she had just enough time to hide it in her mattress before it was time for her morning lessons. She was working on her French and her German today, watching old films and searching through newspapers and magazines. She sat quietly and unobtrusively at her desk until it was time to answer questions, and flawlessly answered each question posed to her, allowing herself a prideful smirk where she would not have before, and even once answering out of turn when Mariska, who now spoke whispery English due to a chipped tooth, gave a wrong answer. Natalia dispensed the punishment, and she was just harsh enough to flout the line between strong and sadistic.

It was all a part of getting attention. No more fading into the background to survive. At this stage in the game, with only five Widows left in the program, surviving meant _winning_. It meant showing herself to be superior in every way. It meant proving that she was sexier, cleverer, wittier, faster, stronger. It meant proving herself to be _better_.

Natalia Romanova already _was_ the Black Widow.

And she'd woven her web with such ease, such grace, such _subtlety_ , that no one—not the Madame, not Karpov—even realized they'd already been caught.

There was only one variable that she couldn't account for, one person she wasn't sure her web had trapped, and that was the Soldat. And proving that despite all her training, all her experiences, the cruelty and the depravity, Natalia still possessed some measure of innocence, because instead of seeing the Soldat's ambivalence as a problem, she was completely intrigued by him.

Because he didn't fit. He was different. Not just from any man she'd ever known or seen or observed but _everyone_. He seemed as different as she felt. Like somehow they saw the world the same way, and that thought was intoxicating. Natalia was drunk on it in a way that only a young girl could be.

So when it was time for her private training session with the Soldat, she tucked her stolen apple in her pant leg and carefully walked with her escort to the training room where the Soldat waited. Only when the door shut behind her, leaving them alone, did Natalia finally crack the smile she had begun to reserve especially for the Soldat. It was softer. Genuine.

And she hoped that it would help her stitch together the puzzle that was the Soldat. In many ways, these sparring sessions functioned as an hour of attempts to establish a connection. She wanted to figure him out, to understand what made him so different, as if perhaps doing so would allow her to understand what made _her_ so different. And in a way that only the Soldat could do, his absolute refusal to bend to her charms both infuriated her and enthralled her.

"Where are you from?" she asked in the split second she sat on his shoulders before he threw her to the mats. He deflected a punch, and dealt his own. Natalia barely ducked in time. "I think you're from America," she said before charging him and using his thigh as a springboard, kneeing him sharply in face. "New York, actually." He spat out the blood from his mouth. She flashed him a smile that's as foreign to him as it is to her. "I think I'm getting better."

It only took five seconds before he slammed her into the mats so hard that she lost her breath. She groaned. "Okay, maybe that was too soon."

" _Vy govorite slishkom mnogo,_ " he says pointedly in Russian. _You talk too much._

Natalia sat up on the mats only to lean back on her hands and smirk at him. "Your Russian is flawless."

"Your English isn't," he fired back.

"Oh, now we both know that's a lie."

"Get up."

"No."

The Soldat blinked, stunned and . . . curious. It was an emotion that he was quickly growing familiar with when it came to Widow Romanova. She was . . . different from the rest. She asked questions. She treated him as if he was more than her instructor. He wasn't sure what _more_ meant, but it was more.

He thought that at first it was some sort of seduction tactic. It wouldn't be the first time a woman had tried to turn his head with her attention. But after days passed without her making any sort of indication of desirous intentions, he realized that perhaps she was simply ambitious. That, he knew to be true.

But the days kept passing, and Widow Romanova kept asking questions.

She was more than ambitious.

And apparently, today, she was bold.

"Get up, Romanova," he repeated, equally angry and intrigued.

Natalia smiled at him, mischief dancing in her eyes, and the Soldat felt something deep within him stir, something warm that nestled in his chest. Amusement? Perhaps. Admiration? Not quite.

"Natalia."

"What?"

"My name. Natalia."

"I don't care about your name."

"And after all this time we've spent getting to know each other," she demurred teasingly, and that warmth in his chest flared brighter.

His fist flexed, but he wasn't containing anger. He was holding back . . . something. Widow Romanova just sat there staring up at him so . . . cute. She was cute. She wasn't supposed to be. Widows were meant to be sexy. Confidant. Dominant. And to be sure, Romanova was all of those things. But she was more. She was cute. Her eyes sparkled in a way the other Widows' eyes didn't. _Couldn't_.

The Soldat didn't fully grasp that the reason was because Natalia Romanova was being genuine. No angles. No ploys. No covers. No masks.

She was being herself.

But his lips began to twitch as if some part of him _did_ know and that part of him was _desperate_ to reach out. His lips curled. It hurt his cheeks. His whole face felt stiff, but it was the kind of stiffness that came from the relief of using a forgotten muscle.

Natalia's smile only widened in response, and her stomach did something odd. It seemed to flip and flutter. Almost nervous but not. It was a new feeling, unsettling but thrilling in a way that she couldn't name. All she knew was that the Soldat's smile made him look like an entirely new man, and _this_ man intrigued her even more. This man smiled. He smiled for _her_.

Natalia Romanova vowed in that moment that she would know this man before anyone else. He was hers to discover.

"I suppose you're right, Romanova," he said.

"Natalia," she corrected.

She suddenly needed to hear him say her name.

He nodded his head. "Natalia."

She grinned. "Soldat."

"You still need to get up."

She leapt to her feet but did not assume a defensive position so they could resume their spar. Instead, she darted off to the corner of the room where she had placed an apple he was fairly certain she wasn't supposed to have. He wondered what made her think that he wouldn't report her until he realized that he actually wouldn't. And why would he do that?

Natalia tossed the apple up in the air as she attempted to sashay back him but in reality ended up skipping. "I stole this," she said, tossing it up in the air between them. The Soldat caught it, and she grinned. "Thought we could share it."

The Soldat stared at the apple in his head. "Share?"

Natalia folded her arms. "I worked to get that."

"Then why not keep it for yourself?"

"Friends share."

"Friends?"

Natalia smirked. "Now, who's asking all the questions?"

The Soldat didn't smile, but Natalia could see it in his eyes, and her stomach flipped again. Without a word, he took the apple in both of his hands and split it evenly in two, even if later Natalia will insist that he kept the bigger half for himself. They passed the rest of their session sitting on the mats, eating their apple, each of them consumed with thoughts of each other for the very same reasons.

They were intrigued. They were confused. They were suspicious.

And they were both undoubtedly, unequivocally, falling for each other.

They just didn't know it.

When it came time for someone to come escort Natalia to her room, the apple was gone but something else remained—new and untested and strange— _trust_. The Soldat watched her leave, his usual blank expression in place, but if anyone had cared to look harder, they would have seen the troubled cloud in his eyes.

But no one looked. Because no one cared.

The Soldat didn't need an escort. He was being granted a measure of freedom whether he realized it or not (and he didn't) since he would be in the Red Room facility for an extended period of time. The Soldat might not realize the passage of time if frozen or wiped, but others would, and Karpov was arrogant enough to put his desire to show off his pet assassin over his common sense and the fact that even after nearly twenty years of brainwashing, Sergeant Barnes inevitably began to fight back.

So the Soldat didn't exactly raise any brows when he was seen on the opposite side of the compound from where his quarters were located. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, but he couldn't get the taste of that goddamn apple out of his mouth. It had been so sweet, special, and he didn't understand how that could be. It was just a fruit.

But the feeling in his chest, that strange warmth, was still there, burning softly like a lighthouse on a dark night, and the Soldat was hopeless not to sail straight toward it. So he waited until he had an opportunity and snuck into the kitchens. His eyes trailed over the rations, looking for another apple, but they were gone, and so he settled for something of similar size and took two dark fruits, slipping them into one of the many pockets of his uniform.

The next day, Natalia walked into the training room for their private session nervous to see if the Soldat would act any differently now that they'd established a fragile trust. It was quickly apparent that something had changed, but it wasn't at all what she had hoped. The Soldat was harsh, harsher than he'd ever been. He pushed her as if he wanted nothing more than to see her break, sending her painfully to the mats as if it were a game to see how long it took her to get back up. By the end of the hour, her entire body was screaming.

There was time for one more spar before her escort was due to retrieve her, and Natalia determinedly put up her hands and waited. And that was when, of _course_ , the Soldat's lips twitched and said, "We're done for the day, Natalia. You did well."

Natalia stared blankly at him for a stunned second before she grinned at the sound of her name on his lips. Then she scowled angrily. "Well?" she repeated at his back as he walked toward his jacket laying on a table. "I spent more time on my back than my feet."

"Yes."

"I failed."

"No, you didn't. Not once."

"How?"

"I'm supposed to break you. That is my mission." He tossed up a plum between them, and she caught it without breaking eye contact. "Don't let me break you, Natalia," he said.

Natalia swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the fruit in her hand as she tried to keep her face expressionless. But she wasn't quite there yet, and her eyes gave her away. Then again, perhaps it was because she was looking at the Soldat and he was looking at her and there was such a strange heat buzzing under her skin that she nearly shook with it. "You won't," she promised.

He almost smiled. "Good."

"But you're welcome to keep trying."

"I enjoy a challenge."

She smiled and looked at the plum in her hand and the identical one in his. "How did you manage to take two?"

"I'm better than you."

"Liar."

He shrugged. "Pockets."

"Damn you," she said before taking a bite of the plum and grinning at the sweetness. She wiped the juice from her lips with her tongue. The Soldat followed the movement with his eyes, and the warmth in his chest burned a bit brighter still. _No, damn_ you.

"How do I know you're not working an angle?" he asked.

Natalia smirked. "You don't. I suppose you'll have to trust me."

He hummed. "So a Black Widow wants to be _friends_ with a _man_?"

"No," she said. "You're the exception."

The Soldat didn't know what he wanted to say, or rather how to say it. It sounded like Natalia thought of him as special. Different. But together. Different together.

"So, it's just . . . you and me," he said, trying to understand.

Natalia smiled, then, really smiled, and that damn light in his chest shone so brightly that for a moment, it nearly hurt. "Yeah," she said. "I like that. You and me."

* * *

 ***collapses with feels***

 **Ugh, that gets me every time and I wrote the goddamn line.**

 **Anyhoo, we've got _plums_ , people. I'm giving the plums a headcanon.**

 **Alrighty . . . next chapter spoiler comes from . . . Natasha! - "It's different this time. You're different."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: Hello! It's that time again, and I am so pleased with myself. Let me tell you why. 1) Finals are OVER! 2) PLUMS and 3) Got an idea for another story.**

 **The week started out rough, but definitely ended on a high note. With that in mind, I hope this chapter makes all of you a little giddy. There are memories making themselves known. Things are really about to start heating up!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or Cap or Bucky or Nat. They're just my imaginary friends I hang with occasionally. No crime there.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Present

Plums.

Of all the fucking things to matter, it's _plums_.

Natasha huffs as she stares at the ceiling above her bed. Honestly, she asked for this, didn't she? She's the one who wanted to remember. She's the one who spends hours at night, lying awake, searching her mind for some magic key to unlock what she's forgotten, all while she listens to James quietly cry out downstairs, trapped in his own memories.

She isn't sure which is worse.

Remembering certainly seems logical, even for all its horrors. It makes the most sense. It allows for more information. More information creates better contingencies. Better contingencies equal a greater chance of survival. Yes, remembering logically seems the better option.

But God help her, it sure as hell doesn't _feel_ like the better option.

Look at her, she's actually hiding in bed to avoid going downstairs. She knows that James is awake. He's been awake for hours, sometime after three that morning after waking from his last nightmare for the night. She'd listened to him pace for another hour, barely picking up the hushed, angry Russian muttering under the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. She'd never managed to distinguish the words, but the rhythm had soothed her somewhat.

That's when she abruptly remembered the plums.

Fucking plums.

Natasha would rather focus on the plums than the feelings they bring. Honestly, she shouldn't suddenly feel so sentimental about a goddamn fruit, but Jesus Christ, she just wants to smile thinking of them. More so the way James had called her Natalia for the second time, that twitching smile on his lips, as if he was still trying to remember how to smile and what it meant. She remembers the way her stomach had felt like it was playing host to a colony of butterflies and the way her heart had beat in her chest like a drumline. God, she'd felt like a little school girl with a crush on her teacher.

Holy fuck, she _had_ been that schoolgirl.

Fuck her.

Fuck. Her.

Natasha groans into her pillow. And look at her now. Still in bed. Obsessing over plums like they have some extraordinary meaning that others just wouldn't understand. Which they wouldn't. The plums were . . . they were a truce. No, they were a promise.

 _Just you and me._

Fuck this.

With more determination than is warranted, Natasha throws back the covers on her bed, heedless of the way they land on the floor, and stomps into the bathroom where she showers and dresses with methodical precision as if she's a soldier meeting a five-star general. By the time she looks into the mirror, her mask is in place. Her hair is slick and shiny, her makeup flawless. She's in her favorite leather jacket and boots that give her an illogical sense of protection against whatever she may find downstairs.

Given that she knows it's illogical, she's hard-pressed to be surprised when it doesn't work.

James looks up from the table the moment she's on the stairs, the pen in his hand pausing over his notebook. No big deal.

Then his lips twitch, and it's the same meager but genuine little smile from her memory.

Goddammit.

"I'm going out," she says. "Don't go anywhere."

James doesn't have time to reply before she's out the front door, leaving him staring after her with a puzzled frown that she doesn't give herself time to see. She marches to the car and throws it into drive, hoping that the speed will distract her, but with her superior reflexes and decades of experience, navigating the twists and turns of the country highway requires very little of her attention. So she has nothing to do but to berate herself for being compromised.

Christ, she's never been so compromised in her life.

She feels . . . fragile. Unbalanced. Spooked. It's not just a memory from her past. It's a part of her that she doesn't remember. She's worked so damn hard to separate who she wants to be from what the Red Room made her, and now she knows that there's yet another part of her that was ripped away and stolen. It infuriates her. It makes her want to scream. It makes her want to rage.

It makes her want to cry.

Natasha sets her jaw and blinks forcefully against the heat in her eyes. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax. So what if she remembers feeling so free? So what if she remembers feeling rebellious and challenging and—God, help her— _hopeful_? So. What.

The memories don't change what happened. It doesn't change her past. She just has another piece of the puzzle, another way to explain why her stomach had flipped as she'd stood on the stairs with James smiling that feeble smile of his. _She made him smile_.

Natasha pulls into the grocery store parking lot but doesn't immediately get out. She sits with the engine idling and "All Around the Watchtower" playing softly on the radio and realizes that she's done this all before. She and James have danced this dance. It's as if they're reenacting how they met all over again, and that terrifies her.

Their story isn't one that ends well.

"It's different this time," she tells herself. "You're different."

Natasha scowls in annoyance and shakes her head, abruptly cutting the engine and throwing open her door. Two steps into her stride toward Costco's automatic doors, Natasha has her mask back in place. She grabs a basket that she doesn't need and takes her time working her way through the aisles, grabbing a bag of Doritos on impulse and then a package of Oreos. By the time she's in the produce aisle where she actually needs to be, her basket is overflowing with junk food.

Her eyes scan the rows of fruits and vegetables until her eyes land on a familiar purple. She stares at the fruit for a long moment before she reaches out and begins to feel them for bruises. It's illogical, but picking the _right_ plums feels important. So she spends the next five minutes feeling plum after plum and declaring all of them unworthy. She's frowning critically at a plum in her hand when an elderly woman shuffles up next to her and begins to peruse her choices.

She's entirely unlike the old woman from the antiques shop. She's dressed smartly in tan slacks and a soft pink button down shirt. Her white cardigan hangs open, brushing against the lower shelves were the carrots and broccoli are kept, and her red-rimmed glasses perch precariously on the end of her nose. Instead of pushing them back up, she tilts her head back until she's peering down her nose and raising her eyebrows to look through her bifocals. Natasha wonders how many grandchildren the woman has to corral since there's a colorful streak of blue from a Crayola marker over her knee.

The woman glances over at her with an easy smile. "Beautiful day," she says.

Natasha smiles slightly. "Busy."

"Oh, don't I know it," the woman sighs fondly. "I'm babysitting for my oldest today. Addy and Tristian. Addy's quiet, but that boy . . ." She tuts and shakes her head. She huffs through a smile. "I'm getting too old to keep up with them."

"I doubt that."

The woman laughs. "Well, you just wait until you're where I am," she says before sighing a little sadly as she begins to feel the plums. "My husband, Harold, his memory isn't what it used to be," she explains. "Put the laundry in the dishwasher the other day." She chuckles. "That was a sight. Ruined my favorite blouse. I'm just afraid one day he'll be one of those people that just wander off and gets themselves lost." She frowns and Natasha thinks she would be twisting her hands if she didn't have a plum in them.

She glances at the fruit. "Are those his favorite?"

"What? No, he hates them!" She chuckles. "But they're supposed to be good for memory, so I mash them up and make a jam out of them. Puts it on his toast every morning none the wiser."

Natasha smirks even as her mind seems to buffer over the sheer irony of _plums_. Good for memory. Go fucking figure.

"Well," she says, filling a bag with plums. "I might try that."

"Oh?"

"My . . . friend. He has amnesia. I've been trying to help him remember."

The woman grips Natasha's arm with surprising strength. "Good luck, dear," she says. "But don't set up expectations. They'll always know they're disappointing you, even if they don't know how."

The advice is meant to comfort her, Natasha thinks, but it only makes her stomach sink. Because if James remembers her, does he expect her to act . . . like, like _Natalia_? She doesn't remember being that girl. She doesn't know if she can be that girl. She doesn't know if she _wants_ to be that girl.

No. She doesn't. She likes being Natasha. She chose to be Natasha.

"Are you alright?"

Natasha smiles at the woman's concern. "Fine," she says. "It was nice talking to you."

She walks away before the woman can say anything else, pays for the plums and junk food, and thinks on the whole drive back to the cabin on the idea that somehow, all these weeks, it can easily be _James_ that's been waiting for _her_ to get _her_ memory back. How fucking ironic is that?

The cabin seems disturbingly domestic yet daunting as she parks the car. The little porch is inviting with its two abandoned rocking chairs tucked into the corner. There's a flicker of light through the windows that seems to beckon her inside, but the shadows cast by the roof and the trees seem too dark, too long—like creepers along the forest floor. There's no noise from within the cabin. She can't even hear him pacing or the scratch of his pen on his notebook.

She's greeted to a strange sight. Well, not really. Just a new sight. James sits on the couch in _her_ spot, with _her_ book in his hands, already a third of the way through _Anna Karenina_. James snaps the book shut without marking his page as she shuts the door behind her. "I didn't know you liked to read," she says as she sets her bags on the counter.

James eyes Natasha appraisingly, trying to determine just what spooked her that morning. Whatever it'd been, it's still bothering her, and he shifts restlessly on the couch. "I didn't either," he says.

Natasha smirks as she rips open a package of Oreos. She hops up to sit on the counter, perching the cookies on her lap. "Learning something new every day," she says before holding out an Oreo. "Here, try one. They're arguably better than the Doritos."

James inwardly doubts this. He's already clocked the familiar red bag sticking out the top of one of the grocery bags, but he feels compelled to indulge her and walks into the kitchen to take the proffered cookie. He eyes it curiously before tossing the cookie whole into his mouth, which proves slightly problematic when the consistency is much thicker than he anticipated. He chews awkwardly while Natasha smirks at him and pointedly bites off no more than she can chew.

He glares at her as he swallows. Natasha raises an eyebrow. "So, what's the verdict?" she asks.

"Doritos."

"What? C'mon."

"Is this all you bought?" he asks as he looks in the bags. "It's not exactly healthy."

"You're hardly in a place to judge my food choices. And look, there's fruit in there." There's a hitch to her voice that James can't pin. "I bought plums," she continues. "Good for memory."

He looks up at her, and though Natasha tries to keep her face blank, there's a shadow in her eyes that she can't hide, and James spots it. His stomach begins to twist and his heartbeat falters. He wants to shuffle his feet and look away from her like he's . . . embarrassed? No. Disappointed? No, not quite. Frustrated? Maybe.

He feels like he's missing something, like she expects him to make some connection, but he can't imagine what or why or how.

"You remembered something," he assumes. Natasha shrugs as if it's no big deal, but James sees right through it, and in that moment, her behavior that morning clicks. She's remembered something, and apparently she isn't sure what it means or how she feels about it. His lips twitch. "Complicated, ain't it?" he says.

Natasha smirks in return but it's not sly or sultry or playful. It's nearly sheepish. "That's one word for it."

On a whim, James reaches in for a plum and takes a bite. The fruit is sweet, but he swears he tastes more than that. It's strangely bittersweet in a reminiscent way. "Can't hurt," he says.

Natasha smiles a little. "No. Guess not."

And James feels like he's done something good.

He tries to hold on to that feeling as night falls. He keeps it locked tight in his chest as he chops what Natasha orders him to chop in the kitchen (carrots, celery, tomatoes, lettuce, and more green, leafy shit). He suspects it's payback for his junk food comment, but he doesn't mind the mindless activity. It allows him to watch Natasha out of the corner of his eye and inwardly smirk at the way she critically assembles a salad as if she's wiring a bomb.

It's . . . _cute_.

He doesn't think that Black Widows are supposed to be cute, but he'll be damned if he doesn't think that his red ballerina isn't fucking adorable with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she tosses a goddamned salad.

His thoughts are drifting more and more toward such . . . sentimentality . . . the longer he stays at the cabin. And the more he remembers. His memories of his time in the Red Room are few and far between, but that doesn't seem to matter. The more he remembers of the past seems to unlock more of . . . whoever he is, and that man seems to think that this redheaded assassin is cute and adorable and _his_.

It's ridiculous, he knows. He has no reason to feel that way. None at all. Most of the time he's able to suppress these softer thoughts and feelings, but inevitably they creep up on him and leave him like he is now, staring at her and just wondering how the hell. _How the fucking hell_.

All the while that warmth sits in his chest like a gentle flame, burning quietly as they eat dinner and Natasha quizzes him about what he thinks of _Anna Karenina_. They fall into Russian without much thought, and it pleases him a strangely inordinate amount to see the sparkle in Natalia's eyes as she speaks in her native language and hear the way her voice becomes lower and melodic. That flame in his chest flares brighter.

But eventually night falls, Natasha retreats to her room, and James is left alone in the dark. And that light in his chest begins to fade, and when it does, the nightmares come. Violent pictures of blood, echoes of gunfire, and screams . . . there is so much screaming. Sometimes it's him. Most times it's others. A crowd after he assassinates a public figure standing behind a podium. A mother as she holds her child. A teenager barely sixteen standing in the kitchen where her father lays, head twisted.

He wakes with a quiet shout and then begins to cough as if he'd choked down too many cries. His eyes dart to the stairs as they always do once he can breathe. Natasha never appears. Never seems to stir. He's grateful. He doesn't want to bother her. Or let her see him like this.

James wipes his eyes in frustration, brushing away the wetness on his cheeks. He sniffs and runs his hand through his hair before reaching toward his notebook that lies ready and waiting on the coffee table. He flips to a blank page. He'll need a new one before the week is out if his memories keep returning at this rate.

He writes it all down. Remembering detail is never an issue. He's able to recall it all with crystal clear vision, like he's watching it all on a film, and he isn't sure if he's grateful for it or if it's just a goddamn curse. His eyes look up at the stairs again.

He wishes he could remember more about the Red Room. Those memories aren't painful. They're enlightening. He remembers being the Soldier and yet more. Not like he is now. No, he'd been different then. Younger, like her. Not as lost, perhaps. Not as mindless. His memory wipes had been less frequent. Karpov had preferred to keep him on ice.

And he's just as curious about Natalia then as he is about her now.

If he can understand her then, perhaps he can understand that strange warmth in his chest that always seems to stir when he sees her.

James glances at the clock. It's almost four in the morning. Sleep at this point is worthless. Impossible, really. So he closes his notebook and goes toward the cupboards in the kitchen. He's still not used to the idea that he has constant access to rations, and he beats back a wave of anxiety as he retrieves a plum from the refrigerator. He rolls the fruit in his hands as he paces the length of the cabin until the tightness in his chest eases. He's much better at controlling his panic attacks now that he knows what to expect.

So he counts his breaths and his steps, focusing on the plum in his hands and the way Natasha had looked when she had offered him one yesterday. There's something about plums. It means something to _them_. It must. He's never seen Natasha so unsettled.

He wonders if it's good or bad.

James eats two plums and doesn't remember a thing.

 _Dammit_.

When Natasha comes downstairs just as the sun is rising, hair ruffled and in fuzzy blue pajamas, he has her pot of coffee waiting for her and two mugs sitting on the coffee table. She mutters a "good morning" at him as she passes him, eyes still half closed, and his lips twitch when she plops onto the couch with the coffee pot in hand and wraps herself in that ugly ass afghan before she pours herself her first cup of the day. He takes a sip of his own and sighs a little at the familiar warmth. It's stronger than he remembers drinking in the old days. He had vague memories of making coffee over the fire for the Commandos somewhere snowy. It was shit, but they drank it anyway.

Once Natasha is into her third cup, she turns to him, eyes bright and alert and yet still not quite as sharp as usual. "You got a bit more sleep than usual," she says.

James takes a drink. "Yeah, well, those four hours cost me."

"You're lucky you don't need as much sleep as a normal person."

"I don't?"

"No. I've seen Steve go four days without a wink. Caught him asleep sitting up on his couch."

James frowns. "Why couldn't he get to sleep?"

"The same reason you can't," she says. "The serum makes nightmares a bitch."

"They're memories."

"Same thing."

He huffs in agreement. "Guess so."

"C'mon," she drains her cup and kicks his leg with her foot. "I wanna spar today."

"I don't know, Natalia."

"What? If you wanna sit on your ass and brood, fine. But if you want to do something constructive, you know where to find me. Unless your arthritis is acting up again."

"I don't have arthritis."

"At your age? What a miracle."

James glares at her. "Fine."

Natasha smiles serenely as she throws the afghan off of her legs and heads up to the room to change into something more comfortable. As she digs through her drawers for a pair of yoga pants, she hopes that she's making the right decision to spar with James. She knows he has nightmares because she hears him shout himself awake. He's always so quiet, like he doesn't want to wake her, and it makes her heart throb painfully. This morning seemed to be worse. She'd nearly gone downstairs.

But that feels like crossing a line, and she's not ready to do that yet.

James is waiting outside when she steps into the cool morning air. "Ten bucks says I pin you in the first minute," she boasts.

James cocks an eyebrow even as lips twitch at the way she sidles up to him. So deceptively sweet, his ballerina. "Alright," he agrees. "What're the stakes?"

"If I win, you tell me about your nightmares."

His back stiffens for a moment before he relaxes. "Fine," he agrees. "I win and you tell me what the plums mean."

He enjoys the way Natasha's eyes narrow. "Fine."

Natasha makes the first move, unknowingly charging at him just as she had in their very first spar. And though she may not remember it, James certainly does, and so it's with a small smile that he counters just as he had then, batting away her punch and returning one. Only this time, Natasha is able to block. That only makes him smile a bit more.

Maybe a spar is exactly what he needs.

Natasha keeps track of the time in her head as she dances around James, eyes narrowed and lips thinned as she looks for an opportunity. There are none. They balance each other far too perfectly. Where he's strong, she's fast. Where he's direct, she feints. Back and forth, push and pull, they complement each other too well, and that alone leaves her with a feeling of unease. Because _no one_ knows her this well.

She ducks a punch and capitalizes on a brief opening, hitting him three times in the solar plexus. It would have been enough to send another man to the ground, but James only wheezes and takes a step back. He smiles at her then, really and truly smiles, and it looks so natural, like he's finally remembered how it works, that Natasha can do nothing but stare and feel her chest swell.

She blames that smile for what happens next.

Before she can blink, she's on the ground, wrists pinned above her head and held in a metal hand. No hope of escaping. "Four seconds to spare," James says, that smile still playing at his lips, and it's all she can do not to stare at them. "You got distracted."

There's the slightest hint of a question in his voice as he stares down at her, his eyes curiously taking in her face, and Jesus Christ, his eyes were blue. Natasha swallows as a realization hilariously late in coming finally hits her: She's compromised. Not because he's a figure of her past. Not because he's key in unlocking a part of her that she's forgotten. Not even because she's attracted to him.

She's compromised because she likes him. Really, genuinely, _likes_ him.

She's crushing on James now just as hard as she'd been sixty years ago.

She's so fucked.

She's so fucking fucked.

"You smiled," she says with a small smile of her own. "It looks good on you."

James blinks once in surprise, and then again in confusion. He . . . he _is_ smiling. And it's strange to think of something so simple as if it's a new revelation, but he . . . it's odd. But good. It feels good. He feels his smile slip a little as he continues to stare down at Natasha, but he doesn't let it fall completely. "What do the plums mean, Natalia?" he asks softly.

"It was a promise."

"Of what?"

"You and me," she says. "Just you and me."

James's smile falls. "What?" he repeats, with a faraway look in his eye.

" _So, it's just . . . you and me," he said, trying to understand._

Natasha frowns. "Just you and me."

 _Natalia smiled, then, really smiled, and that damn light in his chest shone so brightly that for a moment, it nearly hurt. "Yeah," she said. "I like that. You and me."_

James stares at her. He's never noticed how green Natasha's eyes are until now. "You and me," he repeats. "I remember."

* * *

 ***dies of feels***

 **Got to admit that this chapter is one of my favorites. It's the start of Bucky and Nat remembering together instead of separately, and that's where the meat of the story is. Super pumped!**

 **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. It's always nice to know that someone out there is enjoying all your hard work, so drop me a line and let me know what you think.**

 **Next time we're taking a trip to the past. It's Nat's first mission with the Soldat! Here's a tiny spoiler from our favorite redheaded assassin: "You're going to ask me to dance."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: Hello again! I'm thrilled to announce that my first year of graduate school is officially done. Thank. God.**

 **I'd also like to thank everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. It really got me through the last few weeks of this semester.**

 **On that note: Last week FF was being weird. If you didn't get the alert for Chapter 7, you've got two chapters to read!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Or Bucky. Or Nat. We're just hanging out.**

* * *

Chapter 8: Past

It took all of Natalia's restraint to contain her excitement as she sat in the back of the car. She tried to keep her mask in place—cool, collected, and indifferent—as she attempted to stare absently out the window. It was impossible. She was dazzled by the lights and sounds of Moscow and entranced by the way her silk gown felt against her skin. She couldn't remember the last time she had left the Red Room or worn anything other than a uniform. It was almost like being in tights again.

Her toes flexed in her heels.

"Calm down, _malen'kiy pauk._ "

She turned to look at the Soldat who sat next to her, his eyes casually scanning the pedestrians out of his own window. He called her _little spider_ now, and her heart always seemed to twirl in her chest when he did. It felt personal. It was unique to them. She liked that.

She also liked how he looked in a tuxedo.

"I am calm," she said.

"You're bouncing in your seat."

"I am not."

He turned away from the window to give her a dubious look that only made her smirk, and then it was the Soldat who began to fight the urge to keep still. His eyes trailed over her without his permission, taking in her elaborately twisted curls, red lips, and the emerald green dress that flowed over her like water. She looked different. She was young, yes, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized she was a woman nonetheless.

And she was . . . beautiful.

He still wasn't used to these gentler thoughts. He understood war. He understood orders and weapons and missions. Beauty didn't matter. Beauty was superfluous.

But now it seemed to matter, and it made his chest warm to look at Natalia in her green dress with her red lips and her bright eyes staring back at him.

"Walk me through the mission," he ordered.

Natalia rolled her eyes. "Target is Viktor Fyodorov. Business magnate. If you count trading secrets as a business," she added wryly. "Recently, he got his hands on some SHIELD files, formerly SSR, reportedly containing information about the super soldier serum. He keeps his files in a safe in his office at his business headquarters in Moscow, where we are, and is hosting a gala, where we're going, and that's when I dazzle him."

The Soldat cocked an eyebrow. "Dazzle?"

"Distract, seduce, take your pick. While I'm doing all the work, you cover my six. We exit out the southeast stairwell that leads to an alley where a vehicle will be waiting to take us to back to the compound. Easy."

The car stopped and the Soldat turned to look out the window. A tall stone building with stained glass windows that reeked of money and power towered into the Moscow skyline. Something in him chaffed at the grand show of wealth. It wasn't quite resentment, but it was close. Perhaps disgust. Money wasn't something you flaunted. It was . . . it was meant to _help_.

The Soldat shook the thought away. It didn't make sense.

He opened the door and stepped out onto a thick carpet that tumbled down the stairs leading to the entrance. Cameras flashed, but he wasn't worried as he held out his hand to Natalia, who took it without hesitation. More cameras flashed as soon as she took her first step on the carpet, her dress trailing elegantly behind her. She threaded her fingers through his as she smiled for the cameras, hoping that the small chips hidden in her earrings were obscuring her face as the technician had promised.

As they walked the carpet Natalia realized that she should be thinking about her mission. She knew that she should be thinking about strategies and risk assessments, but all she could think about as she walked toward the doors was that the Soldat's hand was warm and rough in hers and she liked it. She'd never held hands with anyone before.

The Soldat kept her hand in his once they were inside and escorted to the ballroom. Her heels clicked over the marble floors as the Soldat led her into the room, and as they headed for the bar, Natalia let her eyes scour the room, taking in its gold embellishments and rich tapestries and crystal chandeliers. Its brightness and beauty made the Red Room look like the inside of a tomb.

The Soldat ordered them two glasses of champagne, and Natalia grasped the stem of her flute delicately even as she eyed the pale liquid inside. The Soldat's lips twitched. "It should be sweet," he said. "If it's any good."

Natalia took a sip, frowning initially at the taste. It was sweet, yes, but not the sweet she expected. A little bitter, a little bubbly. She took another sip and felt herself smile. She liked the bubbles. "It'll do," she said, smiling wider when the Soldat gave her that small smile of his.

He looked so different out of uniform. Human, vulnerable. Without the heavy leather and canvas, he didn't loom so large. His hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck and he was clean-shaven. He looked young. Really young. Hardly older than her, and for the first time, Natalia wondered at his age. Surely, he couldn't be thirty.

A warm, heavy hand on her back jolted her from her thoughts. The Soldat's lips twitched again as he felt a familiar warmth settle in his chest as her wide, surprised eyes met his. "We need to scout the target," he said. "How do we proceed?"

Natalia's eyes drifted toward the dance floor where couples gracefully twirled to the small orchestra that played at the front of the room. She smiled beatifically as she held out her hand. "You're going to ask me to dance," she said.

And honestly, what else was the Soldat to do but take her hand?

* * *

Natalia was a brilliant dancer. As they danced, the Soldat thought that she led just as often as he did in a sense that he seemed hopeless not to follow her. Her eyes as they roved the room. Her lips as she summarized each guest. Her hair that twirled each time they spun.

He hadn't been on a mission like this in . . . he couldn't remember. His missions were solitary. Quiet. His view was typically constricted to the scope of his rifle. And though this environment was certainly different, he did not feel out of place or uncertain. This—dancing, drinking, laughing—it wasn't something beyond him. It was almost familiar.

And as the band struck up another song, and Natalia spun in his arms, the Soldat was stunned by the realization that he liked dancing.

There was no tactical advantage to dancing. It was hardly a skill required of an assassin. Even more so, the Soldat didn't remember ever _liking_ anything. He liked his weapons in the sense that he appreciated quality and the assurance that his missions could be carried out satisfactorily. He liked food because it was essential to keeping in top form. For missions.

The Soldat didn't like anything so . . . _frivolous_.

But he liked dancing.

He liked the way Natalia smiled when he dipped her. He liked the way she was so close, that he could hear her heartbeat if he strained his ears. He liked the way her eyes sparkled, and the way the silk of her dress felt under his hand and the warmth that almost burned him. He just . . . he _liked_ it, and it was fascinating how all of these new feelings seemed to revolve around the little spider in his arms.

"I was a ballerina," Natalia said suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts. "Before."

The Soldat didn't smile, but Natalia caught the way his eyes gleamed with appreciation and curiosity. "You were talented," he said.

"I loved it."

"Then why leave?"

"I was engaged. He died."

The Soldat frowned. The idea of Natalia with another man, promised to him . . . it didn't sit right to him. Not because of some notion of possessiveness or claim but because the idea of his little spider living such an innocuous life seemed a waste. Yet there was the faintest hint of wistfulness and grief in her voice, nearly smothered by the sly apathy he'd grown to expect, and he wondered then, if perhaps there was yet another Natalia hidden away in some corner of this Widow's mind.

He wanted to find her.

"What about you?" she asked, once again forcing him from his thoughts. Her smirk was back, her voice full of familiar sultry mischief. "How did you get to be here?"

"I took a car."

She laughed, and he wanted to smile at the sound. He'd never heard her laugh before, and he liked it. It made that ever-present warmth in his chest glow a little brighter. It was nearly enough to distract him from the fact that he had no answer to her question. He searched his mind with growing frustration for an answer. A beginning. Surely he had one.

He only got . . . flashes. Colors. Faint voices. Nothing that made sense, but left him—if only for a brief second—feeling like an entirely different man.

"Oh, fun's over," Natalia said with a frown as she watched their target descend the stairs with a blonde on his arm. "Target acquired." She smiled up at him. "It's been a pleasure, Soldat."

She wasn't ready for his reply in all its forms. She'd thought that she may wrangle a final smile from him, perhaps even a nod that she liked to think was fond. Instead, the Soldat gracefully spun her off the dance floor, and with a gentleness that surprised her, brought her hand to his lips as he gave her a small bow. "Don't keep me waiting, sweetheart _._ "

She watched him blink owlishly in confusion as soon as the words left his lips, and she was relieved to see that she wasn't the only one surprised by what had just happened. She saw his eyes fill with questions, watched a swell of undefinable emotion flicker across his features, and for a single unguarded moment, he looked lost—like he was seeing something that wasn't there.

So she smiled, a small little smile that mimicked the one he often gave her when they were alone, and said, "You and me, remember?"

It meant that she wouldn't tell. She wouldn't hold it against him. It was . . . this moment was just theirs. It was safe.

The Soldat nodded and retreated into a calm corner of his mind that was single-minded and familiar. "You've got an hour," he said.

She smirked. "I'll do it in half."

She felt his eyes between her shoulders as she walked away, angling toward Fyodorov where he stood near the bar talking to a group of older men fat with wealth. It was disgustingly easy to flash him a smile as she caught his eye where she perched on a barstool stirring a martini. A dainty sip as she kept eye contact was enough for him to buy her drink. Then he was next to her, spouting about his success and its rewards—a yacht in the Caribbean, a penthouse in Paris . . .

Natalia laughed and giggled, pretended to be amazed and entranced, fed his ego like a mother spooning applesauce to a baby. And Fyodorov ate it up with a wide smile and a boisterous laugh.

It was too simple to lean forward, the neckline of her dress dipping dangerously, drawing his gaze. She let her voice settle into a warm whisper, "This music is giving me a headache."

He smiled magnanimously. "I can have them play something else."

She laughed lowly in her throat as she fingered the lapel of his tuxedo. "Or we could just go someplace quieter?"

And Viktor Fyodorov fell for it headfirst.

Natalia only had to endure his wandering hands and foul breath for seconds before her sedative-laced lipstick kicked in and Fyodorov dropped like a stone to the floor of his office. With a smirk, Natalia began her search, flipping quickly through the papers on his desk and in its drawers. There were deals for stock and shipments of various products, and she silently noted the buyers and sellers and stocks in case it might prove useful later. She recognized two of the names as arms dealers.

She checked the clock on the wall. Five minutes until the thirty-minute mark. Plenty of time.

She found the safe hidden behind a false panel in the wall. Cracking it open took no real skill, only patience and a good ear, and then the files were in her hands. She folded them carefully and then hiked her dress up, slipping the files into her garter next to her knives. She took a minute of fluff her hair and smudge her lipstick before she stepped into the hallway. She giggled at the guards standing at the end of the hall, drunkenly trying to fix her hair and her makeup.

They dismissed her with leering smirks.

Natalia reentered the party high on her success and immaculate once again. Not a hair out of place, and her lips as red as ever. The stares she garnered as she descended the stairs felt like quiet praise—how little they thought of her, just a pretty face—but only one stare mattered. The Soldat sat at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey that he held briefly to his lips before taking a drink. His own toast to her success.

They rendezvoused as planned at the southwest exit, meeting in the hallway and falling into step with each other. The Soldat offered her his arm, and she happily took it. "Did I pass?" she asked.

"You did well."

"Hmm," she hummed. "We should do this again." The Soldat cocked an eyebrow. "Go dancing," she said.

And he smiled, a real, true smile. "Maybe one day, _nemnogo balerinoy._ "

 _Little ballerina._

And Natalia knew in that moment that she was so, so compromised.

And she didn't care.

* * *

 **Oh, look at that. Someone has a crush.**

 **Things really start rolling from here, both in the past and the future, so hold on!**

 **Okay, we need a spoiler for next chapter? Who has the line this time? I think it's Bucky's turn. - "You were dreaming."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes: Hellooooooo! Sorry this is a bit late. I've been visiting my best friend in Texas and just got home. It was a very looooong drive! Anyhoo, this is one of my favorite chapters, so enjoy and review!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Cap. Or Bucky. Or Nat. We just chat sometimes.**

* * *

Chapter 9: Present

She knows she's dreaming the second she sees the lights. They hang overhead in long, fluorescent beams, flicking past quicker than they should. She's on a gurney, being wheeled toward the operating room. It's cold. She can feel the metal of the gurney through the paper-thin cotton pad, and it takes all her considerable self-restraint not to squirm. Her heart is thrumming. Frantic. She thinks it's normal. An annoying human trait but normal.

Knowing that, Natasha can't understand why she wants to not only jump off the gurney, but also to run. Run as far and as fast as she can. But that's not who she is. She's Black Widow. Or she's going to be. After the procedure, she will be Black Widow. It's what she wants. She wants it because . . . because . . .

She wants it.

She has her reasons. She knows she does.

She thinks it must be her headache muddling her thoughts. She's had it for days. Maybe it'll be gone when she wakes up.

She's still being wheeled, still watching the lights pass above her, when she finally looks around her. There's no one pushing the gurney, yet it keeps sliding down a never-ending hall with two plain grey doors at the end. This is her chance. She can escape. There's no one to stop her.

Leather and metal bite into her wrists and ankles when she tries to move. She's shackled to the gurney, the cuffs thick and unfailing. No matter how hard she pulls, how sharply she twists, she only begins to bleed. It's so red. Red and true. Honest.

She's forgetting something. Something important.

This is when the dream usually nds. Natasha waits for the gasping breath, the brief shiver of cold sweat, but it doesn't come. Instead, the dream becomes blurry. The lights above her begin to dull while the blood around her starts to shine a brighter and brighter scarlet. Then she watches it move. It swirls and twists until it's a soviet star framed in a familiar shoulder, and then she blinks.

The gurney is gone, but the hallway is the same.

No. No, it's different. It's somewhere she's never been. She's in the basement, the one place she was never allowed to go. Even her _soldat_ doesn't know what goes on in the basement. That's what he tells her, anyway. Yet she always has the intuition that he is . . . afraid . . . of what lies in the basement. The strange thing is that that fear is always accompanied by confusion, as if he doesn't understand _why_ he doesn't like the basement.

That's when she hears the screams, and that's when she starts running.

" _Prosnites'!"_

Faster. She needs to run faster.

" _Prosnites'_!"

Goddammit, why can't she go faster? She needs to . . . she _needs_ to . . .

"Natalia!"

She reacts on instinct. Her hand flies forward, her open palm hitting a solar plexus. There's a whoosh of air and choked, angry cursing, but when she lashes out a leg to land a crushing kick to her attacker's ribs, a firm hand catches her calf. They turn together, his bigger frame wrapping around hers so that by the time they land on the mattress, she's tightly spooned against a wall of muscle and metal that she knows she can't escape.

She throws her head back anyway, and there's another curse. " _Prosnites'!"_ _Wake up_. "Goddammit, wake up, Natalia."

 _Natalia._

She thinks it's the haze of her dream still lingering in her mind that explains her next thought. There's only one person on the planet who can say her name like it's both a curse and a prayer. "James?"

She doesn't recognize her voice. She hadn't meant to sound so small, so afraid and confused, but she can't take it back, and her head is still too clouded from her nightmare to care as much as she should. She swallows, wincing at her raw throat as she waits for an answer. His grip around her slackens so that it's no longer painful and she breathes cautiously, vividly aware of each rise and fall of his chest against her back.

"You were dreaming," he says eventually.

"That wasn't all I was doing, was it?"

"No."

Screaming, shouting in her sleep. She's done it before, in her early days at SHIELD. The first time had been on her third mission with Clint. Standard 084 retrieval. Hong Kong. He'd gotten a black eye for waking her but hadn't said anything in complaint. That's when he began to slowly coax her into wading through her memories to find the holes and loose threads. It had taken them nearly two years to sort out her fake memories from her real ones and to recover those she'd forgotten.

Well, she'd thought she'd recovered them all.

"What did I say? Nothing too embarrassing, I hope."

Her joke falls hopelessly flat, and her gut begins to churn when the silence stretches. James's arms around her become more and more confining. She wants to move, just like she'd wanted to move on the gurney, but she can't. She's trapped.

And then she's not.

He lets her go, sitting up and facing away from her. "You said my name," he finally admits, sounding just as uncomfortable and yet strangely as heartbroken as she suddenly feels.

She swallows. Her throat aches. "I remembered something," she says. "Pieces that weren't there before."

"About . . ."

 _Us?_

She shakes her head. "After."

"I wasn't there."

 _They'd already taken me from you._

"I didn't remember," she says, as if this should comfort him, but it doesn't, and she knows it when he abruptly stands from the bed and takes three long strides away from her until he's as far from her as he can get in the small room.

She studies his profile. He stands in front of the window, casting a shadow in the moonlight, but it allows her to see his face. Confusion, frustration, and pain—those are emotions that she notes with ease. Those are familiar. But it's the rage that takes her by surprise. His eyes are burning with it, and his metal arm is a low whir as he continues to clench and unclench his fist. She worries for a moment that he may have an anxiety attack, but he suddenly unclenches his fist and sighs.

His shoulders slump in a futile way. James is ready for a fight, ready to punish, only there's no one to fight and no one to punish but himself. And Natasha sees it, she sees the moment that he directs the anger inward. As if her dream is his fault. As if the past is his fault. The anger is nearly overshadowed by guilt.

Natasha doesn't know much about Bucky Barnes, not really, but she thinks this is the closest glimpse she's gotten of him. From what she's read, from all that Steve has told her, if there is one trait that sums up James Buchanan Barnes, it's that he's a protector. So it is easy to assume that his greatest fear is failing the people he feels responsible for.

It shocks her to think that she is one of those people. Or was.

Because he doesn't really know her, just as she doesn't really know him. They only know the past, and the past is confined to two measly pages of yellowed paper stamped with hard type letters and embellished with a soviet star. It's the strangest, most disconcerting feeling to _feel_ that something is true and yet not know _why_.

She decides that it's this precise feeling that prompts her to slide out of bed and cross the room. Her touch is deceptively confident as she lays her hand on his arm. The nerves twisting in her stomach don't register on her face as she looks up at him calmly. Firmly. "It's not your fault," she says. "None of what happened is your fault."

"Maybe," he says. "But it still happened." He looks past her toward the bed and then steps away from her. "I'll go."

She grabs his wrist. "Stay."

It takes him a long second to decide, but eventually he nods. James settles into an armchair too small for his broad frame and faces the door, as if he's prepared to fight whatever may come through. Natasha returns to bed, and while she has no idea why she asked him to stay, she's glad she did.

She's asleep within five minutes, and she doesn't dream.

* * *

James relaxes once he hears her breaths become slow and measured. He stares at her as he tries to process the last ten minutes. He'd been unable to sleep, writing in his notebook about what he thinks must have been one of Natalia's first missions for the Red Room. He remembers dancing with her, how her dress had twirled as they waltzed. He remembers faint flickers of memory when she asked about his past. A voice that he know recognizes as Steve's. A flash of gunfire. A train. He remembers feeling proud of her when she came back from Fyodorov's office, looking unruffled and graceful with a deadly little smirk on her lips.

He remembers calling her _sweetheart_.

He doesn't call anyone _sweetheart._ To the Soldat she is his _malen'kiy pauk,_ his little spider. And he thinks that only later, as he broke through more of his programming, that she became his _nemnogo balerinoy,_ his little ballerina. But _sweetheart_? That is entirely Bucky Barnes.

He remembers thinking how weird it was for one little endearment to carry so much meaning when Natasha began to scream.

" _James!"_

He flinches at the memory. He'd been on his feet before she'd finished saying his name, and it was only as he bound up the stairs that he even realized that it _was_ his name. His mind had been frustratingly blank, like he was the Winter Soldier again, only his mission had not been fueled by directives but by emotion. He remembers how his chest had tightened when he burst into the room only to find her asleep, dried tears on her cheeks and clenched fists at her sides.

" _James!"_

Her voice had cracked over his name, and he'd found himself on the bed in the next second, desperate to wake her.

" _Goddammit, Natalia! Wake up!"_

His arm whirs quietly as he sits and flexes his fingers around the arms of the chair. He doesn't want to do this again. Natasha's screams, the tears, that painfully _young_ voice that reminds him so much of Natalia. He doesn't want to go through any of it again. It fucking hurt, which he doesn't fully understand, but his chest still aches in an odd, sympathetic way and his eyes keep darting over to her without his permission to be sure that yes, she's asleep, and yes, she's safe.

Him, a protector. James doesn't remember being a protector.

Eventually he falls into a light, yet aware sleep that only a sniper can manage. He wakes when Natasha shifts in bed, turning onto her side with a little huff and snaking her hand under her pillow. His own internal clock tells him that it's nearly sunrise, and so he quietly gets to his feet and moves downstairs where he starts the coffee.

Only instead of retrieving his notebook, he pauses and opens the refrigerator. He stares at the ingredients he thinks he needs as a hazy memory of helping his mother cook breakfast plays out in his mind's eye. This time he won't have to contend with Rebecca tugging at his pant leg to pick her up.

He takes out the flour, the sugar, the eggs, and the milk and finds a pan that's adequate. It takes him a moment to think through what he wants and how best to accomplish it—working with a half-formed memory is a pain in the ass—but eventually he has a batter whipped up and pours the first circle into the pan. It only takes him two failures before he's able to flip the pancakes and keep them in the pan.

Then he settles into a rhythm and finds himself searching the refrigerator for blueberries and chocolate chips. He's unusually pleased when he finds both, and chalks it up to some memory floating around the edge of his consciousness. By the time Natasha comes down the stairs as the sun peeks through the kitchen window, James has a plate piled high with pancakes and another plate holding a mountain of bacon.

Good God, it's like the first time she took Steve to IHOP.

"James," she says. "I didn't know you could cook."

James shuffles his feet, confused by the sudden heat in his cheeks. "Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Neither did I. It might taste like shit."

Natasha lips quirk. "Then why keep cooking?"

"I might've gotten carried away."

He looks so lost and confused that she has to laugh. "Well, I just hope you're prepared to eat most of it," she says as she takes her coffee pot as usual but places it on the kitchen table instead of taking it with her to the couch. Once her back is turned, she lets herself grin widely, because the Winter Soldier made her a mountain of pancakes to make her feel better, and Jesus fucking Christ, it's the cutest thing she's ever seen.

Clint always avoids making a big deal of her nightmares, and she appreciates it. Truly. He understands her desire to move on, to keep moving forward so she isn't trapped in the past. And until this moment, she's never considered the idea that she could feel so . . . _touched_ by someone trying to comfort her with food.

He's a man after her heart whether he knows it or not.

And God, she hopes he doesn't.

On the plus side, the pancakes do not taste like shit. They're fucking delicious. She heaps another two pancakes onto her plate, one blueberry, one chocolate chip, and douses them in syrup. "Okay," she says around a mouthful. "You're officially in charge of breakfast from now on."

James, who is secretly beyond relieved that everything is edible, smirks a little. "And what will you do?"

"I'll man the coffeemaker."

"Sounds fair."

Natasha takes her time chewing another bite, and then takes a long sip of coffee. "Thank you, James," she says quietly. "Really."

He holds her gaze for a moment, and there's a gentleness there that's new. It makes her stomach swoop. Damn him. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Natasha wraps both of her hands around her coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into her skin. "I've always had this dream," she says before tilting her head in annoyance, "memory, if we're being honest." She offers him a humorless smile. "I'm just on a gurney, looking up at the lights on the ceiling."

James frowns in comprehension. "Graduation."

"Yeah," she says, her smile twisting into something sad for a moment before it's gone and she's all business, like she's delivering a debrief. "It usually ends once I reach the doors to the operating room, but this time it didn't. It changed. I was in a different hallway, and I was running. It was the basement of the Red Room, I'm sure of it."

"Where I was kept."

"Yes. I must have been . . . trying to save you, I guess."

James isn't sure what to make of the idea of her saving him, of anyone saving him, but he shakes the thought away. This isn't about him. "Do you think it's real?"

Natasha frowns into her coffee. "I don't know. It . . . some of it feels real. The . . . the _fear_ feels real. The worry feels real, the panic. But I'm not," she huffs, "I'm not sure if the events are right."

James's lips twitch in sympathy. "Maybe you should write it down," he jokes lamely.

But Natasha chuckles weakly and gives him a smile that makes his heart jump. "Yeah," she agrees. "Maybe I should." She finishes off her coffee. "So," she says. "What are we doing today?"

"That Netflix thing . . ."

"It's not a thing, James. It's a streaming service."

"Whatever. That show . . ."

" _The Office_?"

"Yeah."

The day turns into a Netflix binge that lasts well into the evening. Natasha occupies her usual corner of the couch, wrapped up in that ugly ass afghan, while James sits on the opposite side, his metal arm draped over the back of the couch. There's a tension between them that grows with every episode that they watch, but neither are willing to be the first to cave. Because what if it crosses a line? What if it ruins . . . whatever the hell this is? Was? Could be?

But Natasha can't stop thinking about plums and _just you and me_. And James tries to focus on the show and the characters but he hears Natalia's voice in his head—not Natasha, but _Natalia_ , his little ballerina—so slyly telling him to trust her. He remembers all their spars, the extra sessions, truly teaching and feeling a growing pride as she continued to exceed expectations. James continues to remember while Natasha stares blankly at the television screen and sees a dance studio with a ballet bar and a wall of mirrors. Only there are no ballerinas, just her. Mats line the floor and her Soldat is there with his twitching smile as she leaps at him. She stares and she remembers a rush of feeling, a beautiful break from the expected. She remembers feeling so warm in such a cold place.

And she isn't sure it's possible to miss what she doesn't entirely remember, but she thinks that she does.

Unknown to her, James is in the same damn boat that's rocking with indecision and waiting to capsize. Because for all his memories of Natalia, it's Natasha that stokes that fire in his chest that warms him from the inside out. And he's been so cold for so damn long.

So despite the fact that he hates the old thing, he reaches over and snags the afghan wrapped around Natasha's legs. She stares at him incredulously. "Are you serious?" she demands.

"Cold," he says.

Natasha huffs. "I would have shared."

"You looked pretty comfortable on your side." He throws the afghan over his lap. "Didn't wanna trouble you."

"I'm not letting you steal my afghan."

"You said you'd share."

Natasha narrows her eyes as she hears the faint hint of invitation in his tone. It's barely there, nearly shy, and she realizes what he's offering. He's folded, and now it's up to her. She stares at James for a long moment, and maybe it's her nightmare still lingering in her mind, or maybe it's the fact that he made those goddamn pancakes, but Natasha slides over toward him and slips under his arm and the blanket.

Her head settles on his shoulder. "You could've just asked," she says.

"You wouldn't have asked either."

"Know me that well, huh?"

"I'm starting to."

And that fills them both with such hope. Because Natasha has so few people that know her, and James is finally beginning to feel like he has his feet on the ground. He may not know who he is, what he's done, the people he's killed or even his goddamn favorite color, but Natasha? He _knows_ her.

They fall asleep halfway into season three, and neither dream.

* * *

 **There you go! How about that cuteness.**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes: Hellooo! Welcome back. I'm super excited for this chapter. Our favorite soviet spies are making some realizations, and it's so much fun. The feels alone . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Seriously. I'd be writing scripts and making this canon if I did.**

* * *

Chapter 10: Past

The Soldat had been gone on a mission for over two weeks, and Natalia missed him.

She didn't realize it, at first. She'd never had anyone to miss before this moment, and so she didn't immediately comprehend her discontent as having anything to do with her missing Soldat. Her days were much the same, but they lacked the anticipation she had foolishly come to relish along with the excitement, the vitality, and the clandestine nature of their friendship. All of it had been replaced with boring routine and an absolutely boorish brute of a replacement combat instructor that Natalia made an utter fool of the first day by trapping him between her thighs and throwing him to the mats within a minute.

She was punished for her cheek, but the look of embarrassed fury on the oaf's face had been worth it, along with the pleased glint in the Madame's eyes.

It was only when her time came and went for her usual session with the Soldat that she realized the crushing disappointment she felt was due to longing—that heavy feeling in her chest that was nearly an ache. She missed him. She missed his twitchy smiles that were steadily growing broader and freer. She missed the teasing glint in his eyes when he caught her trying to sneak up on him (and he always caught her). She missed the way he pushed her in training, always setting a cruel pace that never let her rest or think. She missed being challenged.

She missed being understood.

So when she walked into her usual training with the other Widows and saw her Soldat waiting, she very nearly jumped in delight. She scanned him critically as he trained the other girls, cataloguing the stiffness in his left shoulder and the way he favored his right side. He didn't so much as glance at her until it was her turn and she stood in front of him. And he smiled. Not outwardly, but it was there in his eyes, like he was saying _hello_ , and she let herself smirk in return before they fell into the harsh steps of a dance that she'd missed terribly.

It didn't stop her from using his apparent wound to her advantage. She targeted his right side, and only felt the slightest bit of guilt when she heard a rib crack. She wasn't worried about hurting him, particularly when he slammed her into the mats in the next few seconds. They danced until Karpov called time, and they were dismissed. She left without sparing her Soldat a glance.

That changed hours later when she returned to the room for her private lesson.

"Hey," she said. "You didn't write."

The Soldat smiled as she sashayed toward him. "Didn't know that was part of my orders."

"Well, you should have clarified."

"I won't make that mistake again."

"Good."

She stood right in front of him, so close that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. She'd nearly forgotten how tall he was compared to her and found the rediscovery comforting and familiar. The Soldat's hands twitched at his sides. His thoughts kept spinning in frustrating circles, all due to the bright warmth in his chest. He'd forgotten how distracting it could be. Throughout his mission he'd felt himself slipping into a familiar, disconnected state of mind that was silent and calculating, and part of him had welcomed it. It was easier, simpler.

Yet at night, he'd always fallen asleep thinking of green eyes and red hair and a low chuckle.

It was maddening and confusing as all hell, but goddammit Natalia was right in front of him, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin just like when they'd danced, and he was . . . _happy_.

Natalia moved so quickly, so suddenly, that he nearly countered her attack—perhaps she'd only been distracting him for a tactical advantage—but though her arms wrapped around his neck there was nothing violent about it. She held herself close so that he felt the gentle press of her breasts against him and laid her cheek smack over his heart.

He didn't know what to do with his hands.

"It's a hug, Soldat," she said quietly with a smile as she listened to his heartbeat gallop. She wondered if he could feel hers racing just as fast. "Hug me back. That's how this works."

Some long-buried instinct rose within him, and he raised his arms. One wrapped around her waist while the other cupped the back of her head, and he unthinkingly bent his head toward hers until his lips grazed her hair and he smelled her plain lemon shampoo. A strange feeling swept through him, then. It was fierce and warm and determined. Protective.

And the Soldat knew in that moment that he'd done this before, held someone like this before, felt like this before.

He just didn't remember.

Only that made no fucking sense.

He quickly drew away from Natalia, partly in frustration and partly to clear his mind. Natalia always made his thoughts messy. "That's enough," he said. "We're here to train. There's no room for sentiment."

Natalia frowned but nodded. "Yes, Soldat," she said, in an attempt to settle him.

It worked, and they trained hard, harder than they had before he'd left. They trained like they had in the beginning, nearly three months ago now, when the Soldat had only wanted to break her like the rest, and Natalia relished every second of it because this time she held her own completely. Her back never touched the mats once, and by the end of the hour, the Soldat looked equally frustrated and equally proud. She grinned.

He huffed. "Don't get cocky, _malen'kiy balerinoy_."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Soldat."

The Soldat felt his lips twitch against his will. "Then what would you dream of?"

Natalia shrugged. "What do you?"

"I don't dream."

"Never?"

"Not that I remember."

"Meet me on the roof tonight."

"What?"

"The roof. Tonight. Meet me there."

"It's against the rules."

Natalia smiled. "I'm aware."

The Soldat liked her smile. Three weeks away hadn't changed that, it seemed, nor had it dulled the urge to be the reason for her smile. "You'll be punished," he said.

"Only if I'm caught. And I won't be."

He believed her. "An hour after lights out," he said. "The soldiers will be in the middle of a shift change."

He didn't want to see her punished. And as he waited for the hours to pass, cooped up in his quarters, he thought that by that logic he should have dissuaded her. Only he hadn't. He hadn't because he wanted to see her. See more of her. He wanted to talk with her and ask such trivial things. He wanted to know what she had learned while he was away, if the Red Room had sent her on a mission without him. He wanted to know her favorite book, her favorite color—such trivial, insignificant things but he wanted to know every single one. He wanted to know about her dancing, if she missed it, if she thought of their waltz as much as he did . . .

The Soldat thought of all these things rationally. It felt to him more like compiling a terribly thorough dossier so that he could better understand Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow that so plainly had him caught in her web and yet in no hurry to leave. It didn't make sense. These . . . these _emotions_ didn't make sense. They were new and vivid and overwhelming and distracting and God help him, he soaked it all up like a sponge. Like an addict.

He felt _alive_. He felt like he was _more_.

And that goddamn warmth in his chest just kept burning brighter and brighter, like there was something inside of him scratching and clawing to get out, but he'd be damned to know what it was or what it meant.

That didn't keep him from being on the roof at the agreed time.

Natalia arrived no later than a minute after him, but didn't show herself. She stared at him, standing stalwart and strong despite the brisk wind that made his hair dance on his shoulders. She waited a moment longer, and then a small smile twisted her lips. It was a game they had begun before he'd left for his mission. Their hand to hand training had taken a turn for more subtle instruction in stealth and surveillance. Her skillset hardly made a damn bit of difference if someone was able to sneak up on her or recognize that they were being watched.

The Soldat made no move to hint that he knew of her presence. He purposefully kept himself relaxed, shoulders slacked, breaths even, a soldier at ease admiring the Moscow skyline. He didn't need to turn his head to know that Natalia was silently creeping up behind him on his left, knowing it to be his heavier (and therefore slower) side. He kept track of her by the breeze blowing the scent of her lemon shampoo toward him, and then once she was close enough, by straining his ears to listen to her heartbeat.

He smirked the moment he felt the air shift as she made to leap onto him, and said, "You've still got a lot to learn if you want to sneak up on me, Natalia."

"Dammit."

Natalia pouted and then scowled to hide what felt infuriating like a blush on her cheeks when the Soldat looked down at her with a smirk and—dare she think it—fond eyes. "You wanted to talk," he said. "What about?"

She shrugged. "Anything. What was your mission?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"C'mon, just give me a location." She smirked up at him. "I promise I won't tell. It'll be between just you me."

And though she said it all with a devious smirk that no one in their right mind would trust, the Soldat heard a wisp of truth in her voice. Not to mention there was those three words again. _You and me_. He was beginning to think that it meant something totally different, he just didn't know what. "Brisbane," he said after a moment.

Natalia's eyes lit up. "Somewhere warm."

The Soldat scowled. "It was a fucking sauna."

"Aw, did you get sand in your arm?"

"I feel like you're not taking this seriously."

"Whatever gave you that impression?" She smiled teasingly but freely, rare and genuine, before plopping down to sit on the ledge of the rooftop. Her legs swung back and forth as she leant back on her hands. Concrete dug into her palms but she ignored it. "You never did answer me," she said. "At the Gala." She turned to look at the Soldat who had joined her on the ledge. "About where you're from."

It should have been a simple question, but it wasn't. During his time in Australia, entirely alone with the exception of his daily radio check-ins, the Soldat had found plenty of time to think while he surveilled his target, Marcus Kent, a bigtime gun runner who had a habit of selling to the Soviet's enemies. In the time that he wasn't learning every second of how Kent spent his days, the Soldat tried to remember. He had thought to start simple. A name.

He knew of no other title than _Soldat_.

And that wasn't right.

A soldat was a title, not a name. But try as he might, the Soldat could not think of any other name. He tried his date of birth next. Nothing. His parents. Nothing. Friends. Nothing. Even when he tried to remember the flashes from the Gala when he'd danced with Natalia . . . they were still hazy. Indistinct. A muffled voice. A flash of blue and red. Cold.

"You and me, right?" he demanded softly.

Natalia frowned. "Promise."

"I don't know," he admitted. "Where I'm from, any of it. I don't remember."

The Soldat was glad when Natalia did not immediately respond. Instead her brows drew together and her lips thinned. "Well, there are only two options," she said. "Either you lost your memory or someone took it."

Yes. Those were the options he had come to in Australia rather quickly. Neither left him feeling as if he had solved anything. "I don't . . ." He shook his head. "I remembered something. At the Gala."

 _Don't keep me waiting, sweetheart._

Natalia fought a smile just thinking about it. Glimpses into the man beneath the Soldat were fleeting, but she cherished them and hunted for them with the same tenacity with which she trained. The words had flowed so easily from his lips, and in an unmistakable Brooklyn accent. American, then. He was American.

"What did you remember?" she asked.

"None of it makes any sense," he said with a shake of his head.

"So?"

He sighed. "There's a voice. Male. I see a flash of blue and red, and it's cold."

Natalia nodded. "I can work with that." The Soldat was growing used to smiling, but he tempered the urge. "Do you think you're compromised?" Natalia asked suddenly.

He stilled. There was no edge in her tone, no predatory bite that insinuated she may report him. His mind and body railed at the notion, sending a flood of adrenaline through him. It had never distracted him before. He knew how to channel the energy into combat. He always, _always_ chose to fight.

But in that moment, the Soldat wanted to run.

He was scared.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt scared.

"Would you report me if I was?" he challenged.

Natalia opened her mouth to answer, only to shut it when she realized that she'd meant to say that _yes_ , she _would_ report him. The success of the mission was paramount. Anything and anyone hindering the mission was to be neutralized. It was ingrained into her very being, it felt like. _The mission always came first._

But to turn in the Soldat would mean a punishment for him. He would be taken away for certain, killed at worst. The KGB had no room for weak operatives, and the failure of their greatest asset, the Winter Soldier, would be an embarrassment they would cover up and bury deep.

Which meant that Natalia would be alone, and that thought was so abhorrent that she shuddered. To go back to such a boring, repetitive existence; to feel and hear and see and touch in a world so dull, so grey . . . it would be _torture_. Knowing that there was more, that she could be more . . . to lose that felt akin to death. Of herself, of everything she could be.

And it wasn't worth it.

"No," she swallowed, and for the first time since she walked into the training room and saw him standing so menacing and dark, Natalia truly realized just how much she had changed. She realized what it meant. The way her heart ached for him, the way her chest felt warm at the thought of him, the way her stomach somersaulted when he smiled, the way _she_ smiled when he said her name. He made her _laugh_.

It was just like the films she had watched to learn English and so many other things. It was exactly the same.

She loved him.

The thought echoed in her head as she continued to sit quietly beside him and stare at the cityscape. She loved him. She _loved_ him. She hated the way her heart seemed to sing and her blood pulsed in her veins. Like a celebration, like a victory. She supposed it was, in a way. She was meant to be a Black Widow. She was meant to be above such petty sentiment.

But she loved her Soldat.

And she didn't feel weaker. She just felt . . . more complicated. And complexity, surely, would work in her favor. The ability to think, to understand—not just to deduce and rationalize, but to truly understand, to empathize—surely that worked in her favor. It was knowledge that the other Widows were not privy to, emotions and thoughts and feelings that they were incapable of understanding and therefore unable to fully manipulate. They would always underestimate.

Natalia would not.

She glanced at her Soldat. He sat hunched, his metal arm resting heavily on his thigh. His hair fell to obscure most of his face, but his sharp jaw could not be hidden entirely. She wanted to trace it with her fingers, feel his stubble beneath her fingertips. But it wasn't the right time. She could see that. Her Soldat had far more important things to understand.

First, who the hell was he?

"So," she said. "Where do we start?"

Her Soldat hummed. "Start?"

"On your memory, of course."

He studied her, confused and cautiously hopeful. It felt . . . comforting to think that he wouldn't be alone. "You'd help?"

"Just you and me, right?"

He gave her a little smile. "Right."

Natalia ignored the way her heart soared. Oh, those words had such a different meaning now. "So," she said. "Where do we start? What do you want to know most?"

Her Soldat looked down at his metal arm and then at the city lights. "My name," he said. "I want to know my name."

* * *

 **Shit's getting real, y'all. He wants to know his name.**

 **I know I've been skimping on chapter previews, so here's a line from the next chapter: Natasha! "We may be assassins, but we're still civilized."**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: Heyyyy! Welcome back for another chapter. Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review and favorite this story. It's one that I'm very proud of, in a lot of ways my strongest story to date, and of course my OTP. So keep telling me you like it! ;)**

 **This is also one of my favorite chapters. Prepare for fluff. Also, bit of a warning. Parts of this chapter really earn the M rating for cursing. Because Bucky.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.**

* * *

Chapter 11: Present

No matter what Steve says, this is definitely payback for Coney Island, because who in their right fucking minds decides to _zipline_ off a _mountain_ onto a speeding _train_ in the goddamn _snow_? But he does it, and he lands on top of the train with more balance than he thinks he should. The wind stings his face and the cold bites his skin but he doesn't shiver, almost as if he recognizes the cold but doesn't feel it in his bones.

Bucky shakes the thought away. He doesn't have time to think about how he's . . . changed. The mission comes first. _Zola_ comes first.

So he follows Steve into the car, and it's quiet. Too fucking quiet, and when it bites them in the ass he's not surprised, but he is fucking pissed. HYDRA just couldn't make it easy, could they? Now he's trapped in a goddamn fucking train car with three of these bastards, and he's running out of ammo fast. One he hits in the chest, the second takes a ricochet to the head, and he knows he's the best shot on the Front but fuck him if he can't find a clear shot for the third Nazi bastard. They trade shots until he hears a telltale _click_.

And he has a moment when he thinks he's done, that he's finally going to die, and it's still the fucking scariest realization in the world because _he doesn't want to die_. But his hands don't shake. He checks the clip in his gun knowing it's empty, and tries to come up with some kind of plan that doesn't involve dying.

Of course it's just when he's come up with nothing that Steve decides to show his pretty face, the dramatic little shit that he is, and saves the day.

"I had him on the ropes."

"Yeah, I know you did."

Then there's the mechanical _zap_ of a HYDRA weapon being discharged. It bounces off Steve's shield but sends him into the side of the car, leaving the shield right in front of Bucky who picks it up to prepare for the next volley. He gets off two shots that _ping_ off the bastard's armor, but it doesn't matter. Suddenly he's in the air and metal screams and it's hot and then the wind is biting his skin again.

It's luck that he manages to grab onto the outside of the train.

He hangs there in shock, and then Steve is there yelling at him, making his way to him, and goddammit, that punk is going to get himself killed . . .

"Bucky! Take my hand!"

But the metal gives way, and then he's falling . . .

 _Cold_. He only knows the cold and the pain. He feels the snow seeping into his clothes, watches the steam rise from his left arm as his hot blood hits the frozen ground. He gets colder as he keeps bleeding, and he wants to laugh because he can literally feel the heat leaving him, draining from him like a fucking faucet. Finally, he's sleepy. The cold starts to fade to numbness, and it's blissful.

" _Sergeant Barnes . . ."_

* * *

"James!"

James's eyes snap open and fuck, he can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe.

Hands on his face. Small. Calloused Familiar.

"James, breathe with me. C'mon, _soldat_."

Natalia. He knows that voice. Breathe. He feels her heartbeat against his, so steady compared to his galloping pulse. Her breaths are slow and measured. He feels them on his collarbone. Her head is tucked into his neck. Her hair tickles his nose.

"Breathe," she repeats.

James breathes. He focuses on her heartbeat and begins to count. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe.

Natasha waits patiently as he calms. She ignores the crushing metal grip of his hand on her hip and the way his flesh fingers dig into her back hard enough to bend her ribs. She'll be bruised purple as soon as he lets go, but she's had far worse. The marks will be gone in two days, tops. She has her soldat to worry about.

Another minute and his hands lose their strength. One hand gently runs up her back like an apology before settling at her hip. His left hand rests on her thigh. These touches have become normal. Natasha lifts her head so she can gauge James's awareness. Sometimes the line between memory and reality is still blurry after he wakes.

"James?" She touches his face. "You with me?"

His eyes close and he sighs. "Yeah."

She wants to ask what he remembered, but she doesn't. Instead, Natasha gives him a weak smile and says, "I'll leave you to it, then."

James wants her to stay. He nods. "Thanks."

Natasha goes back to her room, and he opens his notebook. It's his second one, and already he's halfway through it. Out of habit, he rereads some of it as he flips to a fresh page.

 _My sister's name is Rebecca. She was a pain in the ass. Followed me to the dance hall one night and got drunk. I carried her home. She puked on my good shoes._

 _Steve used to draw. I bought him a sketchbook for his 14_ _th_ _birthday._

 _Why the fuck did we hitch a ride in a goddamn freezer truck?_

 _Coney Island._

 _1942\. Saw the Dodgers play. We won._

 _I have another sister. Bridget. She made me learn to braid hair. I pretended not to like it._

 _My favorite color is red._

 _I fucking hate bananas. Slimy bastards._

 _Alice. Youngest sister. Blonde. She made me play tea party. I wore a crown._

 _I owe Peggy Carter $125.00 with inflation from a bet. Can't remember the bet. Maybe a good thing?_

They're all Bucky. No missions, no Soviets, no HYDRA. Just him being Bucky Barnes, brother and friend. Writing down the details of his fall feels like losing that innocence all over again, but he writes about the train and the cold and the pain and the last time he was Sergeant Barnes. He snaps the notebook shut once he's finished and moves toward the kitchen.

When Natasha feels as though she's given him enough time to recover, she finds him slaving over the stove with a bowl of batter and a growing stack of pancakes. She rolls her eyes behind him even as her lips lift in a faint smile that flirts between sad and fond. "I should buy you an apron," she says to announce her arrival.

It's unnecessary; unnecessary, but polite. James has been aware of her presence from the moment she stepped foot on the stairs, but he nods along.

Natasha hops up onto the counter next to the towering plate of pancakes. She folds her legs beneath her like a child and steals a cake from the stack, folding it in two and taking a bite. He shoots her an annoyed glare. Her eyes dance. "Got any plans today?" she asks, nudging his hip with her toes.

He could grab her foot and crush her ankle with one squeeze. She's on his left side. She's almost _always_ on his left side as if she's either daring him to try something or trusting him not to, and the longer he's with her—and it's been three months now—the more certain he is that she does, in fact, trust him.

At least enough not to break her foot. Or worse.

He purposefully keeps his thoughts logical and detached. Natasha trusting him is a large pill to swallow, and he tends to choke anytime he remembers the night she'd lain in his arms and fallen asleep. It hasn't happened again, but then they have yet to have another Netflix night. He wonders about the reason, wonders if maybe waking up feeling so . . . ridiculously _content_ . . . had disturbed her as much as it had disturbed him.

James had woken first, hazy and disoriented like he did when he was released from cryo, but instead of feeling cold and numb he'd been warm and safe. _Safe_. What a fucking novel feeling that, ironically, scared the shit out of him. He can only assume Natasha felt the same, since there was only a sweet second when she nuzzled closer to him before she froze and abruptly went up to her room. He'd pretended to still be asleep to be polite. He thinks it was a ploy that Natasha appreciated, as neither have brought it up since.

But she's more open now. There are little touches. On his arm, his shoulders, his chest, his back. Little, absentminded touches as she reaches past him for something or when she drags him out of the cabin and into town for "practice", which is essentially a euphemism for acting like he's _not_ a brainwashed assassin.

He's knocked out of his thoughts when she kicks lightly at his hip. "You're gonna burn your _precious_ , soldat," she says, and he can hear the smirk in her voice as he curses and flips the cake. Just in time, too.

He glares at her without heat, and she smiles. His lips twitch. "I read that one, you know," he says. "Ma saved up and got it for my birthday the year it came out."

Natasha's smile melts the way it always does when he slips into what she inwardly calls "Bucky Mode"—the times when he's relaxed and his Brooklyn accent comes out and his eyes lose a bit of their ghostliness. He looks younger, softer. Less hurt. She loves it, and only feels a shiver of guilt that she's meeting pieces of this smart, mischievous man with Steve none the wiser.

"Oh, yeah?" she says. "I'll spare you the pain of watching the films."

"They made films?"

"Regrettably."

"Don't tell me they fucked it up." Natasha smirks, and James scowls. "You know, just when I think this time ain't so bad, it manages to disappoint me."

"Don't worry," she says. "They made three good ones. It's a sorta sequel to _The Hobbit_. We'll get the books, too, while we're out."

"We're going out?"

"Yeah. I'm bored."

James looks at his pancakes. "After breakfast."

Natasha wonders how HYDRA would react to knowing that they probably could've gotten the Winter Soldier to comply by simply offering pancakes as a reward. "Of course," she says as she takes a plate and begins building a mountain of carbs and cholesterol. "We may be assassins, but we're still civilized. Coffee or juice?"

* * *

Truthfully, Natasha has been planning this particular outing for weeks ever since she saw a flyer in the grocery store. She hopes it's as fun as she wants it to be. It's a little corny, a bit cliché, but it's right up her alley, and she has a gut feeling that her _soldat_ will like it, too. After all, not every ex-Soviet super assassin's favorite film (so far) was _Star Wars_. He keeps pestering her about the prequels, but she refuses to subject him to that kind of disappointment.

James is quiet while she drives. The silence around them is not uncomfortable, but there is a growing cloud of words unsaid building between them that makes Natasha want to shift in her seat. Strangely, the more of her memory that returns, the more awkward she feels. Memories of training, she can handle. She appreciates the knowledge, even if there is a part of her that's annoyed to learn that half of her moves are actually _his_.

It's the memories of plums and rooftop meetings that make Natasha uneasy.

And the sex.

She couldn't forget about the sex. Half of her is astounded and profoundly disappointed that she forgot the sex in the first place. Her sex-life suddenly made so much more sense. Always leaving satisfied and yet still wanting. _Searching_.

Natasha glances at James out of the corner of her eye.

Bastard.

Stupid cocky Brooklyn bastard.

Not that he remembers being one, anyway. He doesn't have the image of his head between her thighs or the feeling of his smirk against her skin burned into his memory.

Damn him.

Natasha shifts in her seat again, and James looks across the console at her with mild curiosity. "Anxious, _moya balerinoy_?"

It takes every ounce of Natasha's control not to react to his endearment. He's so much freer with them now, and she has no idea if it's intentional or if it's unconscious, but dammit, she can't hear them now without feeling him whisper against her skin. She summons a close-lipped smile and meets his gaze. "Yes," she says.

The key to lying: telling the truth.

She wonders if he taught her that, too.

"I haven't been to one of these in a while," she continues. The last time had been two years ago with the Bartons. "I'm excited."

James raised an eyebrow. "I'm curious and terrified."

"Shut up. You'll like it, I promise."

"You said that about _The Matrix_ , too."

"Oh you know, what? I stand by that movie."

"They looked ridiculous."

"Yeah, well, you don't know what it was like to suffer through 80s special effects, okay?"

James's lips twitch. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"I'll give you cute right up your ass, James."

He chuckles, and her lips twitch as she fights a smile. God, she loves it when he laughs. She likes knowing that it's because of her, and that it's completely natural. She isn't playing an angle or manipulating him. She's just . . . being herself. She's being Natasha. And Natasha can make the Winter Soldier laugh.

Her secret is out once the field is in sight, and James feels a smile tug at his lips. "A carnival?" he repeats.

"A friend told me they can be fun."

"Barton."

"Yep. He started out as a carnie," she says lightly.

"And somewhere along the line became an assassin." James watches the Ferris wheel circle as they walk across the field to the gates. "I've always wondered why HYDRA never recruited from carnivals. Such potential."

"You know, Steve never mentioned you were such an asshole."

"You've _met_ Steve, haven't you? Punk is the sassiest little shit I've ever known."

Natasha smiles as she takes his hand once they have their tickets. She does a quick survey of their new stomping grounds. All the fan favorites are present—Tilt-A-Whirl, Swings, Ferris Wheel—and all the best games. She wants to go to the shooting games. She sees one with a bunch of duck targets that offers a giant bear as a grand prize. That bear will be hers.

Clint never lets her play the shooting games.

It's still midmorning, and so the crowd is relatively light. There are a few early risers with small children hoping that the morning excitement will leave their kids knackered in the afternoon, along with a handful of stoic dads with steaming cups of coffee that are only present to win teddy bears and hold tickets. The air smells like hot dogs and funnel cake and Natasha bounces on the balls of her feet, her hand in James's, and starts to lead them toward the swings.

"So," she says. "You remember Steve."

"Is this what this is? You trying to lure me into talking by distracting me with carnival rides?"

"No, I'm just asking."

"Hmm," he hums like he doesn't believe her (and he doesn't, not entirely) but he says, "I remember . . . enough. He was a friend. I know that much."

"Is that why you dragged him out of the Potomac?"

"No," he shakes his head, "I just . . . I knew that I had to save him."

"Protect him."

"From what I do remember of Steve, that fits."

"You make him sound like he picked a fight with half of Brooklyn."

"From what I remember, he did. You wouldn't believe how many alley fights I remember pulling him out of."

Natasha's eyes light up. "Try me."

They drift from ride to ride, silently agreeing to save the games for last, and as they wait in lines and walk across the field, they talk. Sometimes it's about their memories, and both make an effort to focus on the lighter ones. James shares a simple memory about his littlest sister, Alice, a girl no more than four with blonde curls and big green eyes. All there is to the memory is feeling her little hand slapping his bicep in the middle of the night and the sound of a teary, shy voice asking if she could sleep with him because there was a monster in her closet.

He doesn't tell her about the fierce wave of protectiveness that had flooded him. He doesn't talk about how he remembers Alice wriggling under his arm like a fish and wrapping her hands around the chain of his St. Christopher's medal. He doesn't mention the warmth that he remembers flaring in his chest and the way he'd tugged her closer just in case that monster in her closet tried to snatch her. He doesn't talk about the fact that the more of these memories he gets, the more he misses his sisters.

He doesn't say any of this, but he thinks Natasha hears it, and that's enough.

But for the most part, they set memories aside and just talk. Natasha makes a game of analyzing the people around him, and nearly lets out an undignified snort when James points out a pot-bellied man in a straining, grease-stained white t-shirt and a newsboy cap and says, "Fat bastard just couldn't make it in ballet."

They talk about movies and books that James remembers. Natasha is beyond jealous that he saw _Casablanca_ in theaters, and she spends half an hour fielding his questions about _The Lord of the Rings_ and how it's a sequel without being directly connected to _The Hobbit_. "It's just a story that takes place after Bilbo goes to Erebor, James," she insists.

"That defies the definition of a sequel."

"Fine! It is a series of _connected_ films."

He smirks a little and she tries to crush his hand in retaliation before she remembers that she's holding his metal hand and all her effort is wasted. "You're winding me up on purpose, you ass," she accuses.

"I told you, _moya balerinoy_. You're cute when you're pissed."

"I am the Black Widow."

"I'm aware."

Natasha scowls but hauls him toward the concession stand. "C'mon," she says. "I need food if I'm gonna put up with you. Ever had a funnel cake?"

He smirks a little. "Not that I can remember, no."

"Well, we'll fix that."

They wind up eating two whole funnel cakes, and Natasha could care less that she's covered in powdered sugar, but she has to laugh at the way it clings to James's stubble to the point that he looks like he's rabid. She caves and grabs a napkin. "You're a mess, you know that?" she says as she wipes his mouth.

He stares at her for a long moment as he feels the heat of her fingers through the thin paper napkin. "Yeah," he says honestly. "I am."

"Gettin' better though, don't you think?"

James isn't entirely sure about that—if anything, the days grow more and more confusing—but he supposes anything is better than being mindless. "Guess you're right," he says.

"I usually am."

He smiles, then stands, and for the first time, he's the one who tugs on her hand. "C'mon," he says. "I have a vague memory of being good at carnie games."

"Oh, are you going to win me something?"

"Somethin' tells me you can win your own prizes."

"Well, yes, but where's the fun in that?"

The fun is when James goes straight to the shooting game, sets the highest score on record, and hands her the ridiculously huge bear she'd had her eye on the from the moment they had arrived. And to her horror and frustration and secret joy—Natasha blushes like a schoolgirl when he grandly gives it to her to the applause of the carnies working the booth. Yes, she thinks, Bucky Barnes is in there somewhere beneath the Soldier and the man she'd known as James.

And she likes him.

In her own way, she likes all three of them.

Isn't that a hell of a thought?

She throws softballs at stacks of bottles and wins him an equally silly stuffed animal—a hilariously blue elephant that James (appropriately) names Dumbo.

They finish the day on the Ferris wheel. It's a tight squeeze between the two of them, Dumbo, and her bear, Berretta. She'd laughed at her own little pun for a solid minute and then continued to snicker under her breath for the next five, much to James's silent amusement. He watches her eyes as they slowly begin to climb to the top. The car is wobbly and cheap and feels like it'll break any second, but Natasha just relaxes into him, leaning against his metal arm like it's a pillow, her hand still wound in his.

Her eyes follow his, and she lifts their twined hands slightly. "Can you feel this?" she asks curiously.

James frowns. "Yes," he says. "In a way."

"Is it warm?"

"You are," he says. "But not like it'd be with my other hand. It's less feeling and just knowing."

"So sensors," Natasha picks up their hands again and rotates his arm slightly as if she can see the metal plates beneath his red hoodie. "They register the heat and that goes to your brain."

"Yeah. Same goes with pressure. I can crack an egg or a skull."

Natasha hums. "I remember it looking like a regular arm," she says. "Like a hologram."

"That trick hasn't worked since the sixties," he says. "It was useful when they used me more as a spy. But after our . . ." He looks away. ". . . I guess they didn't trust me around people. They made sure the closest I got to anyone was through the scope of my rifle." He looks sideways at Natasha. They're near the top of the wheel now, and between the lights of the carnival and the emerging stars, her hair glows like an ember. "You've remembered more," he says.

"Hmm, so have you," she says as she takes in the bright lights beneath them. She can just see the town's lights through the trees, like a flashlight beam in the dark. "Mine all came back at once. Or maybe it didn't, I don't know. I just woke up a last week and," she shrugged, "remembered. Most of it, anyway." She looks at him then, a devious smirk on her lips. "The sex was great."

She's both teasing him and testing him, and that infuriates him and yet leaves him flustered and fighting a grin. But the longer he meets her gaze, the easier it is to see past her teasing and discover the vulnerability hiding in corners of her eyes like he remembers Alice hiding under his arm. And there's the same urge to protect, a sense of responsibility, of loyalty, that quietly demands he soothe her, and Jesus Christ, she's beautiful tonight.

"Well," he says. "That's good to know. I'm jealous."

A grin threatens at the corners of his mouth, but Natasha grins easily. "You don't have to be, you know," she says. "We could fix that easily enough."

In that moment, James has never wanted to remember more, because Natalia is looking at him like she _knows_ him—in much more than the biblical sense, as his Ma would say (he thinks)—like she's seen and held and known him in a way no one else has, and he fervently wants to understand how. Yet there's still that light in his chest burning as bright as the lights of the carnival as he stares at her challenging green eyes that are just inviting him, _daring_ him to play her little game. And it feels familiar. Natalia pushing and pushing and pushing little by little until he's hopeless to resist her challenge.

Memories or no memories, now is no different.

He smirks. "You couldn't handle it, _vozlyublennaya_."

 _Sweetheart._

Natasha's eyes widen in delight, and though part of her desperately wants to push him further, if only to satisfy her own curiosity, she forces herself to lean away from him—when had she moved in so close?—though she keeps her smirk in place. "Now, you have no way of knowing that," she says teasingly. "I'm the one that remembers _handling_ you."

James is glad she's moved away. He thinks, to his slight shock, that he'd been two seconds away from kissing her. He almost chases her, nearly uses her hand that's still in his to pull her to him and kiss her like his life (or sanity) depends on it, but the ride suddenly jerks to a stop, and they have to go. "Well," Natasha says as they walk back toward the concession stand. "I say we get ice cream and then head back." She grins. "Ever had Dippin' Dots?"

* * *

 **Well, we're halfway through the story. Seems like our favorite Soviet Spies are looking up and romantic. Yay.**

 **Things heat up next chapter. *wink wink**

 **Chapter 12 Preview: "What are you afraid of?" - Natalia**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes: Hey, guys and gals. Sorry about the late posting here, but I've just now managed to politely sneak away from family to a Starbucks to get some Wifi. My lovely grandmother (bless her heart) refuses to pay for Internet when her desktop comes with solitaire anyway. So, I made the excuse of a coffee run.**

 **Anyhoo, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. You're the bomb. I love you all. Keep making me smile.**

 **WARNING: This chapter earns the M rating in all it's sexy glory. There be lovemaking ahead. It's at the very end of the chapter, so when things start getting steamy, if it's not your thing, feel free to stop there and know that there were cuddles.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Seriously. Stop making me repeat it.**

* * *

Chapter 12: Past

Natalia was invisible in the crowded streets of Prague, and she loved it. She carried a paper bag in her hands and a pistol in her pocket in the late afternoon sun. Her face tilted toward the sky, and her eyes closed. It was warmer here, if only by a few degrees, and it felt like a kiss on her skin. She could get used to it.

She was in the center of the city, right in the old town square, and she took her time pretending to look in the markets. Perhaps she took a bit _too_ much time. Natalia stood in front of a jewelry stall when she felt the telltale pinch between her shoulders of someone being observed. She didn't turn to look. She knew exactly who it was, but she did not immediately move. She lingered for another moment, trying on a necklace for show, before regretfully handing it back with a smile and a shake of her head.

That move would likely cost her in some form, and she honestly looked forward to it.

James was so terribly amusing when he was annoyed.

 _They were on the roof again despite the fact that the night air was quickly becoming cooler as summer faded into fall. As was usual, both had brought treats. Natalia shared the last three apples of the season, while her Soldat offered something very new: whiskey. It went so well with the apples that she felt spoiled._

 _Natalia held the flask in her hands. "You couldn't have found another?" she teases. "It's running out a bit too quickly for my tastes."_

 _The Soldat smirked and took it back from her. "How was I supposed to know you drink like a damn fish?"_

" _Well, if you'd taken me out for drinks like a gentleman . . ."_

 _He chuckled. It was dry and hoarse, nearly a cough, but his smile was warm. "I've got a feelin' I haven't been one of those in a long time."_

 _She handed the flask back to him. He took a swig. "Does it bother you?" she asked. "Not remembering?"_

" _I remember having a family," he said. "Sisters. A brother, maybe. Sometimes I'm . . . distracted."_

" _Not the best thing in this business."_

 _She watched as he took another drink. "HYDRA doesn't tolerate weakness," he said. "Maybe I don't have a memory for a reason. Distractions and missions don't exactly go together."_

" _Successful ones, anyway."_

" _Yeah, those."_

 _He stared broodingly across the cityscape, eyes a thousand miles away, with the nearly empty flask in his hand. The corners of his eyes were tight with frustration. "You seem pretty distracted now," she said with a little smile._

 _He raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away?"_

" _Well, there's the drinking and the staring off in the distance." She tilted her head. "To start." Leaning toward him where they sat on the ledge, she kicked his foot. "Tell me."_

" _12557038," he said. "It's a US Army serial number. New York."_

" _You."_

 _He took another drink. "Me."_

 _Natalia studied him for a moment before she said, "You don't like being a number."_

" _Soldat. That damn number." He shook his head. "It doesn't . . . it doesn't feel right."_

" _Well, that's okay. Just make something up."_

" _I don't have to." He glanced at her. "It's James. My name is James."_

 _And Natalia laughed._

 _James frowned. "That's not . . . what's funny?"_

 _She tried to stifle her laughter. "James?" she repeated._

" _Yeah," he said, his brows pinching together in confusion while his lips steadily pursed in annoyance. His shoulders raised defensively, and oh, it was adorable. "What about it?"_

" _It's just so . . . American."_

 _He rolled his eyes. "I regret telling you already."_

 _Natalia's smile melted. She placed a hand on his thigh, smirking internally when she felt the muscle twitch. Good. "I don't," she said. "James."_

"See something you like?"

Natalia smirked as she leaned in the doorway of the church steeple, her eyes lingering unabashedly on James as he lay on a table in front of the open arch, rifle tucked into his shoulder and his eye never leaving the scope. She hummed. "Why? Do you?"

"Well, there was this redhead earlier," he said. "Had her right in my sights."

"Didn't take the shot?"

"She has potential . . . if only she wouldn't be distracted by things that shine."

Natalia's eyes drifted to his metal arm, safely concealed in the shade so as to not give away their position. "But they're just so pretty," she retorted, finally pushing off the doorframe and sauntering forward. Instead of sitting in the chair he had so courteously provided, she sat on the edge of the table, her thigh pressed against the length of his side, and plopped her paper bag of pastries between his shoulders. "And besides, if I wasn't here, you wouldn't get breakfast."

James's lips twitched as he fought a wave of amusement. "I've managed to survive all these years," he said. "Somehow."

"So I got apple and cherry." Natalia opened the bag. "Which do you want?" James sighed. "Cherry, it is, then. I want the apple."

James lifted his head from his scope and sat up, reaching behind his back and catching the bag before it could fall. "You're a pain in the ass, Natalia," he said, even as he took a bite of the pastry and closed his eyes briefly at the sweetness.

Natalia laughed around her food. "So are you, James."

Both tried and failed not to smile, and they spent a few minutes in silence as they each enjoyed their treat. James looked over at Natalia out of the corner of his eye. This was not their first mission together. Technically, it was their fifth, and neither were unaware that this mission and the previous four were poorly disguised tests. James's presence was not required except to tie up would-be loose ends and, essentially, to give Natalia a grade that he would report back to Karpov.

However, despite this knowledge, James found himself looking forward to these missions. He would have previously seen them as a waste of his time. He was no babysitter. Yet these missions gave him an excuse to spend time with Natalia without the Kremlin looking over his shoulder. Or hers.

It was entirely illogical. Superfluous. Frivolous. _Indulgent_.

But goddammit, he . . . he felt different. With her. Because of her. Both.

The whole damn world seemed _alive_. Or maybe it was him. Hell if he knew. He only knew that Natalia Romanova was special, and he would willingly accompany her on mission after mission as long as it meant that he could see her like she was now, eyes closed, a smile on her face, and frosting on her lips. He didn't think much about reaching toward her and wiping the icing away with his thumb. It felt natural, like he'd done this very thing a million times—perhaps not to Natalia, but to . . . Bridget? Yes. She'd been a messy eater when she'd been little. Hated peas, but who didn't?

Natalia blinked at him in shock, her tongue darting out in surprise to lick his skin. She could taste the sweetness of his own breakfast on his fingers, and she wanted _more_ . . . but for the first time she could remember she had no idea what to do. If James were a mark, she would suck his finger into her mouth. Just for a brief moment. A tease. He would undoubtedly fold. Take her into his arms. Praise his luck at having a woman as beautiful as her. All she would need to do was lay back and fake an orgasm.

But that wasn't what she wanted to do at all.

She just . . . _wanted_.

And James did, too. She saw it, for a split moment. Pupils blown wide, the smallest ring of blue around them. That telltale hitch in his breath. And his eyes were fixated on her lips almost as if he was in a trance.

Neither moved.

James swallowed. "The target should be on the move," he said. "The shot's yours."

Natalia smiled. Or tried to. She didn't think she quite managed it. "My lucky day."

They both attempted to restore order by moving away from each other. James felt sure that was the right step to dispelling the tension he had never felt quite as potently as he did now, and certainly it was the only thing that could alleviate the sudden tightness in his pants. He wanted to glare at her, as if it was her fault—and it fucking _was_ , goddammit—but even without half a memory James was sure that glaring at her as she was now, stretched out on the table holding _his_ rifle, would not help at all. So he sat in the chair he had placed for her and grabbed a pair of binoculars.

Their target was an American diplomat currently attending a conference. Lunch was scheduled at a restaurant on the opposite side of the square, and Richard Newcombe liked to sight-see like an idiot. Natalia had watched him meander through the square at noon every day for the past three days without fail, and she had no reason to believe that today would be any different. He particularly liked to linger at the very same jewelry stall that she had been to that morning. Likely looking for a gift for his wife. Natalia wondered if the intent was genuine or to mask the guilt for the two hookers he'd called to his hotel room the night before.

Right on time, James spotted Newcombe. "Got him?" he asked.

Natalia smiled into her scope. "You have to ask? I'm insulted."

"Stay focused, Natalia."

"I am focused, James." He could hear the smile in her voice, and to his combined frustration and exasperation, he fought a smile in return. "5'9. 180. Receding hairline and a bad comb over. You can't really miss him."

James followed Newcombe through the binoculars. "He's at the jewelry stall."

"I see him."

"What's your wind?"

"Northwest. 15 miles an hour."

"10," he corrects, watching a flag flutter on top of a building across the square. Natalia cursed under her breath. "Relax, _moy malen'kiy pauk_ ," he said, keeping his voice low and measured. But where his tone would have once been cold and flat, he found himself warmly caressing the syllables, his voice lulling and soft. And even though his eyes were still staring through the binoculars, he felt her relax next to him. He watched Newcombe shifting through the merchandise at the stall. "Keep your breaths even," his voice was nearly a croon to Natalia's ears, yet it didn't distract her. She relaxed even further. "Wait for your shot. No need to rush."

Newcombe reached for another necklace from the vendor. She was an older lady with candlelit eyes, the type of eyes that Natalia thought could burn a hole in your head or warm you from head to toe. Newcombe gave the necklace back, but instead of reaching for another, he put his hands in his pockets. "He's about to leave," she said.

"You have time."

He took a step away from the booth. The woman smiled widely and held out another necklace. He turned back and reached out to take it from her. Natalia inhaled.

There was nothing immediately dramatic when she pulled the trigger. She let out an easy breath as she watched Richard Newcombe's head crack like a firecracker on the Fourth of July in a spray of flesh and blood. Everything happened a split, strangely blissful moment of silence.

Then that moment passed, and the screaming started.

Natalia didn't pay attention, climbing off the table. James already had the suitcase ready for the rifle. By the time she broke down the gun and folded it neatly in its case, James had removed all traces of their presence. They left the church through an alleyway and headed straight toward the panicking crowd. As soon as they hit the sidewalk, James took her hand and she clutched his arm like a scared lover would as they became lost in the throng of people.

They got out of the square before the police had cordoned off the area, taking a taxi to the lower town, and then a tourist bus that took them into the country. They stole car from a petrol station and spent the next two hours driving to a safe house in the middle of the country. Their orders were to stay the night and rendezvous for extraction at a private airfield fifty miles away the next morning.

Natalia looked across the console at James, who drove with one hand slung carelessly over the wheel and sat slouched in his seat—a picture of ease and laziness that was comical. His hair, which had been slicked back for appearances sake, had been ruffled in their haste to leave the city, and a handful of strands fell forward to hang around his eyes. There was the faintest trace of stubble on along his jaw as the day drew to a close, and as the sun continued to fall his shadow steadily grew darker.

James felt her gaze but kept his eyes on the road. His lips, however, twitched. "See something you like?" he asked again.

Natalia didn't smile. "What if I said, _yes_?"

Nothing about his posture changed, but the air was suddenly tense and the car felt far too small. "That would be . . ." James searched for the word as his heart leapt. "Complicated," he decided.

"Nothing new, then."

"Don't be naïve, Natalia."

"I'm not being naïve, James, I'm being logical."

"We'll get caught."

"Why are you afraid?"

He scowled. "I'm not afraid."

"You are." Natalia's head tilted to the side. "Why?"

James closed his eyes and threw the car into park, grateful that they'd made it to the safe house. He didn't want to have this conversation while driving. No, he didn't want to have this conversation at all. And it wasn't because he was opposed. He was very much _not_ opposed. That was the problem.

Natalia would pounce on his weakness as soon as she looked into his eyes.

So James chose to retreat. He wordlessly got out of the car and popped the trunk, grabbing all of their provisions in his metal hand and throwing the bags over his shoulder. He knew that the conversation was far from over, and he used the moment's peace from the car to the doorway of the small country cottage to fortify his will. He wouldn't give in.

"I don't see the problem, James," Natalia said as soon as they were through the door. She kicked it shut with her foot without looking, her gaze firmly on his shoulders as he kept moving away from her. "What would be so different from what we're doing now?"

"We're not doing anything now."

"We sneak out to see each other every night."

"Nothing happens."

Natalia swallowed. "I _want_ something to happen."

Goddammit. James sighed. "Natalia . . ."

"It's been four months, James," she continued. "Four months of us dancing around each other and never getting as close as we want."

"It'll get us both killed."

"You don't know that. What are you afraid of?" she demanded. "That Karpov finds out? You wouldn't be the first soldier to fuck a Widow." James flinches minutely at her harsh words. He can only hear Karpov's coldly indulgent voice in his head. _Perhaps if the girls progress well, you can have your fun with one._

"It's not like that," he said firmly. James wasn't sure exactly what they were, but he knew they weren't that. They were . . . this _thing_ between them . . . it wasn't crass. It was soft and hot and Jesus Christ, Natalia's eyes were too damn green as she glared up at him. He looked away. "You know it's not like that."

Natalia's eyes softened yet lost none of their ferocity. "I know. It's you and me," she said, slowly closing the distance between them. "It's _just_ you and me."

Natalia stood still in front of James, and he was hopeless not to meet her eyes and fuck him, every single thread of resolve he had snapped. There was a swell of emotion in his chest like he'd never felt before. Like that morning but different. Like the warmth he felt when he remembered his family, but even hotter. Brighter. It was more than lust. It was desire. A desire to know, to touch, to see, to feel, to _live_ , to be _selfish_. So goddamn selfish.

Natalia put her hand on his chest and smiled faintly at the thundering heartbeat under her palm. "I know it's a risk," she said. "But I want you."

She stared unflinchingly at James, forcing herself to let him in, to let all her emotions show. No teasing. No flirting. She nearly trembled where she stood, so incredibly vulnerable, but she forced her back straight, kept her head held high, and was desperate enough, silly enough, _in love enough_ , to hope that James gave in. She wouldn't force him. She refused to seduce him.

She was _choosing_ him.

And she wanted him to choose her.

Slowly, James lifted his hand—the warm, vulnerable one—and touched her cheek in a soft caress, his thumb brushing over the small swell before his fingers sifted through her hair to cup the back of her head. "Just you and me," he repeated softly. " _Moy malen'kiy krasnyy balerinoy,_ " he said, fond and exasperated but _warm_.

Natalia smiled widely for only a moment before she was moving, grasping the lapels of his jacket and pulling him to her. James's hands swallowed her hips as he pressed her against him, meeting her halfway for a kiss that lacked any and all finesse. It was sloppy. It was wet. It was hot.

It was about damn time.

James's hands slid under her shirt, immediately seeking warm skin, and Natalia sighed, smiling slightly at the contrast between metal and flesh. She fisted her hand in his hair while the other gripped the back of his neck. It was like a spar, like a dance, and just as if they were training and she was this close, Natalia jumped. Only instead of her thighs wrapping around his shoulders, they strangled his hips, and James held her to him with one arm while the other knotted in her hair and pulled her head to the side so he could lavish the tender skin of her neck with sharp nips and sucking kisses.

Natalia was hardly idle. Her hands left his hair—though not before scraping her nails against his scalp and grinning when James growled (she _would_ hear that sound again)—to explore a body that she knew and yet found herself discovering. His shoulders were just as broad, yet the strength in them felt forgiving beneath her hands. She hastily found the hem of James's shirt and tried to pull it over his head, though it got stuck around his chest since he refused to move his hands from her ass.

She huffed. "You don't want to fight me on this, _soldat_ ," she threatened.

He smirked as he met her glare. "I might."

Natalia shoved him away hard, nearly toppling the couch that they had somehow found themselves on, and tugged the shirt over his head before he could react. She took a moment to commit this picture to memory—James with his messy, tangled hair and kiss-swollen lips, blinking up at her with blazing eyes that were predatory and yet hid something softer. Her hands moved over him, her fingers mapping hard, scarred muscle and metal. James eyes closed when her nails lightly skimmed over the spider-webbed scars around his left shoulder.

"It hurt," Natalia said.

He smirked darkly. "Still does."

Natalia eyed the scars curiously yet critically. The spy, the assassin, was curious about the scarring pattern and how the metal and flesh worked together. Yet there was another part of her, a quiet, new part that felt a gentle swell of sadness and pride. She kissed his shoulder. "Well, I like the arm."

"Careful, _vozlyublennaya_ ," he said, brushing a curl out of her face. "Keep sayin' things like that, I might not let you go."

The words themselves were a tease, but James didn't smile. He just looked at her, open and yet warning. He meant it. She shuddered but smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing." In one smooth move, she lifted her own shirt over her head and tossed it aside. "Now," she looped her arms around his neck, "shut up and put your back into it, _soldat_."

They weren't graceful or soft. Natalia only knew how to inflict pain, and pleasure was merely a tactic she had been taught, but when she found herself straddling James naked hips with her lips trailing over his chest, there was the smallest sense of uncertainty in her touch. Shyness. She wasn't used to the truth, and this moment felt painfully honest.

James was a host of contradictions as he held her. His hands were rough and demanding on her hips as she moved over him, yet his lips at her ear whispered such sweet things about her. When he flipped them and pinned her beneath him, his hand wrapped around her throat. Only his hold was light, a sort of dominating gentleness, and his thumb stroked her pulse, as if to reassure her. Natalia held onto his arm, nails digging into his skin.

Such trust between them, and neither could believe they deserved it.

Except when they were nothing but a pile of naked, sweating flesh, basking in an afterglow that, if only for a moment, made them forget everything but four special words.

 _Just you and me_.

* * *

 **So, I gotta admit, I really, really, _really_ love this chapter. Sexy times only play a small part. It's just that this chapter is the culmination of everything Natalia and James have been rediscovering. Humanity. And it was so sweet and satisfying to write.**

 **The fun begins when Bucky in the future starts to remember. Muahahaha. On that note, quote from next chapter goes to Bucky!**

 **"It's you and me." - Bucky, Ch13**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Thank you, thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter. I was so glad to see that everyone was happy! Or fanning themselves. Or both. This is my first M rated story so I was a tiny bit nervous. First time jitters and all. ;)**

 **So, now, we ironically get to deal with the consequences even if it's 60 years later. Fun!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.**

* * *

Chapter 13: Present

He remembers what happened in Prague.

It comes to him on a run. There's a trail that meanders through the trees around the cabin, a forgotten hunting trail that stretches five miles from start to finish. It's a decent workout, enough to get his blood flowing, and a brilliant way to clear his head. Figures he gets hit with the memory on mile twelve, right when he's in his stride, and nearly falls on his damn face in shock.

He remembers following her through the market with his scope, watching her hair not only to gauge the wind but because he was mesmerized by how the curls danced over her shoulders. He remembers wiping frosting from her lip and the taste of cherries. He remembers guiding her through the shot like a patient lover. He remembers the flirtation that did little to disguise the crippling tension between them. He remembers Natalia being so brutally, beautifully honest. He remembers admiring her for it and hating her for it.

Because he also remembers his own fear. Fear for her, for himself, for the consequences if they were found out. How completely stupid he'd been to put it all aside. Stupid but . . . in love.

He hadn't realized it then, but James knows it now. And it's a funny realization to come to, that as an amnesiac brainwashed assassin he's now capable of hindsight, that he finally has enough of a semblance of memory to recognize love. And he'd loved Natalia. Even with just the one memory, he knows.

There's a small pond just off the trail, and he sits on the grass that's damp with morning dew and thinks. Three months. Almost four. That's how long he's been at the cabin with Natasha. Four months of living with another human being. Four months of learning about someone through experience rather than words on paper or surveillance. It's exhausting and challenging but so completely brilliant.

Every morning he makes her coffee, and she's always too grumpy and out-of-it to be thankful until her third cup when she gives him that little smile. He looks forward to that smile. Sometimes she sings Ella Fitzgerald under her breath while she cleans her guns, and when he stops to listen to her she always arches her eyebrow challengingly even as her eyes glow with quiet pleasure. When she sings "Sweet and Slow", he knows it's for him. Then there are the times when she comes downstairs in the mornings wide awake but withdrawn, her eyes pale and faraway. Those are the mornings when she ignores her coffee and grabs a bottle of vodka instead. Yet she still sets out two glasses. One for her, and one for him, and he always joins her.

James picks up a stone and skips it across the length of the pond. He'd loved Natalia then, and his mind—his scattered, broken mind—can't help but wonder if he loves her now. It seems silly. Surely he can't. He's too fucked up. His mind is a mess, and his emotions are arguably messier. He's never sure if what he feels is real, if it's really him or if it's just a memory. If he's learned anything, it's that emotions have memories, too.

The sun continues to rise and James continues to stare at the water. The light winks on the surface like glass in the sun, and he tosses another pebble into the water. That's how Natasha finds him—metal arm glinting in the light, leaning back, ready to throw. She sits next to him and watches the rock skip across the surface until it flies into the brush on the opposite bank. James rests his arms on his knees as he glances at her, but she only gives him the slightest smile before leaning back and raising her face toward the sun. She closes her eyes with a quiet sigh, and his lips twitch.

"Gonna wait me out, huh?" he says as he returns his gaze to the water.

Natasha hums. "Nothing gets by you, does it?"

They pass hours in the sun until the tip of Natasha's nose begins to turn pink. James lies on his back after half an hour and closes his eyes, hoping that his mind will drift and not be entirely aware of Natasha's every movement and the way her hair burns bright in the sun. No such luck, since Natasha eventually (inevitably) decides to push him by using him as a pillow, laying her head on his stomach. His muscles tense briefly as flashes of Prague appear in his mind, and yet those flashes are ultimately how he relaxes.

He _remembers_ this.

Finally, Natasha turns her head. "Okay, I know I said I'd wait, but I'm burning, here."

"You came after me," he says.

"Not the first time."

Odessa. He remembers that, too. "I shot you," he says. "Twice."

"I remember."

"You always invite people who've shot you to your safe house?"

"Living with a corpse sounds pretty boring."

They're quiet for another moment before he finally says, "I remember Prague."

Natasha takes the news without reacting. She's calm, unfazed. And for the most part, that's honest. Logically she expects this. She _wants_ this. She doesn't like knowing more of their history than James. She wants to be on a level playing field. Yet there's a small part of her that panics for the very same reason. She's a spy. She's the best. And one of the reasons she's the best is because she always, _always_ , has the advantage. The more James remembers, the more that advantage dwindles.

"What'd you think?" she asks.

"We were idiots."

"Yes."

"But," he pauses. "It was human. I was human."

Natasha rolls off of him, propping herself up on her elbows in the grass so she can look at him. "That why you're out here staring at the water?"

"I remember going out to the docks in Brooklyn or out to the bridge," he says. "I'd stand there for hours some nights, just watchin' the boats and the lights on the water. Helped me think."

"And what are you thinkin' about now?"

"Emotions are a pain in the ass."

Natasha laughs. "They do complicate things."

"How do you separate your past from now?"

"This is the part where I tell you how I became Natasha Romanoff, isn't it?" she asks rhetorically with a sigh. "Well, _soldat_ , sorry to disappoint, but I didn't separate anything. I took the parts of myself that I wanted, and created whatever else I needed to be to survive." She looks down at the grass with a wry smile. "I've worn so many masks," she says. "I don't know if any of them is actually me."

He smiles slightly. "Well, if it counts, I like this one."

Natasha thinks she could have kissed him then and there, damn the consequences. Because they're talking about so many things at once, and she understands what's not being said, what James is trying to tell her—he doesn't know if what he feels for her, now, is real or a product of the past. He wants to know if she's managed to figure it out. And she's honest.

She hasn't. She can't.

And James accepts it. He accepts _her_.

It's such new territory for her, being so open. Honesty doesn't come naturally to her, and she feels so damn raw and exposed, but if this is what she gets out of it—this acceptance, this _smile_ —it's worth it. Because she just admitted without words that she feels something for James, that she's not fighting it, and he'd smiled.

Natasha realizes that it's complicated. She realizes that nothing has been decided. Neither are willing to push too far at the moment, to test something that both remember but aren't sure is still there, but they're willing to let it rest, to be patient. That's all either can handle, but it's enough. It's more than enough.

"It counts," she says softly.

They spend another few minutes in the sun before Natasha cracks a joke about being able to fry an egg on his arm. By the time they hike back to the cabin, the sun is beginning to fall in the sky, both are exhausted from the sun and their conversation, and neither are in the mood to cook. So Natasha just takes the gallon of chocolate ice cream from the freezer, grabs two spoons, curls up on the couch, and starts a _Doctor Who_ binge on Netflix. She wordlessly leans into James's side. His left arm rests on the back of the couch while the other fights her for the ice cream, knocking her spoon with his for the best bites until she hammer punches him in the gut.

It doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it certainly makes her point.

He smiles and leans deeper into the couch with a sigh as he tries to follow along with the show that she insists is better than _Star Trek_ , and just as he starts to complain about how a phone box is too damn small to be a spaceship, the camera shows the console room, and he says, "Holy shit, it's bigger on the inside."

Natasha has never laughed harder in her life.

They fall asleep together on the couch. James is the first to shut his eyes, his chin dropping toward his chest, and his hair falling to shield his face. Natasha smiles to herself as she gives in to the urge to nuzzle his chest before switching to a new show. She spends the next three hours sorta-kinda watching _Parks and Rec_. For the most part she pays attention to James's even breaths and the way he occasionally twitches in his sleep. His arm whirs behind her head once and she tentatively puts her hand on his chest. " _Vy ne odinoki, soldat. YA zdes'. YA zdes'."_

James blearily blinks his eyes open, not even half-awake. "N'talia?" He huffs before tugging her closer to him as he stretches to lay out fully on the couch. Natalia stares at him with wide, stunned eyes as he wraps one arm around her, his metal hand cradling her hip while the fingers of his flesh hand briefly card through her hair. He sighs contently and kisses the top of her head. " _YA mechtal o tebe,"_ he says.

 _I was dreaming about you._

Then he's asleep again and Natasha can only lay her head on his shoulder and stare at the TV. Waking him up by moving would only lead to awkwardness. There's a chance he'll remember what he said, and after their conversation earlier, knowing he's hardly ready to admit what he feels, she doesn't want to make him feel as if she's waiting for him.

And she's not.

Of course, that doesn't keep her from falling asleep.

Her dream begins like always. She's on the gurney again, looking up at the lights over her head, rolling endlessly toward the doors to the operating theater. It's easier to get free, only the dream doesn't change like last time. Natasha pauses as she examines the hallway, cautiously extending a hand toward the wall and then jerking it back when she feels cold metal. It feels real. Too real.

She swallows. Logically, she knows that it's just a dream. None of it is real, yet she can't shake the feeling that it once _was_ real. This is a memory. She knows it.

And there's only one memory that she doesn't have.

Natasha takes a deep breath and takes a step toward the doors that she never reaches on the gurney. The distance shrinks. She pauses again, but only for a second, and then she's striding with more confidence than she feels toward the doors until she's running. The closer she gets, the clearer the screams become.

"James!"

She tries to burst through the doors.

They don't give.

Natasha curses as she lands hard on the floor. She leaps to her feet. "James!"

She bangs on the doors in frustration before taking a step back and drawing her sidearm. She fires off an entire clip at the thick chains keeping the doors shut, but each shot pings uselessly off the metal. "Goddammit," she hisses. "James!"

She hits the door again, hears her knuckles crack, and hits it again.

"Natalia!"

The screams change. Higher. Natasha shudders and winces. She claps her hands over her ears as the screams get louder. Her voice is weak. "James!"

"Natalia!"

Her body begins to burn, and god, her _head_.

"Natalia!"

A jolt runs through her, and her eyes snap open.

"Natalia. Hey, _malen'kiy pauk._ Breathe."

Her chest hurts. Breathe? She gasps.

"C'mon, Natalia. Look at me." He holds her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "Breathe," he says firmly. "It's you and me."

James waits and hopes as she stares sightlessly at him, her eyes frantically scanning his face, pleading with him to help, and he's fucking trying, but he can't do it for her. "Natasha," he says. Her anglicized name feels weird on his tongue, but she blinks at him. "It's just you and me, sweetheart. So do us both a favor and _breathe_."

Natasha closes her eyes and forces herself to take a deep breath and hold it. She's done this before countless times. She knows how this works. She can do this. It's easier if she keeps her eyes closed. Her brain can only process so much, and her senses are scattered. She feels James. His hands on her face, his skin under her nails. The TV is still playing. She smells the lavender candle she'd lit on a whim.

"My head." Her throat is raw. "I . . ." She winces.

James curses under his breath as understanding dawns. "You need a drink," he says.

She huffs. It's supposed to be a laugh.

Her eyes open again, and James's familiar, haunted concerned eyes are what she sees first. His hand still cradles her face, and his thumb absently caresses the apple of her cheek. Then she looks at him harder. Her hand goes to his jaw, fingers gently tracing the thin, bloody lines that mar his stubble. "Sorry," she says.

James smiles faintly. "I've had worse."

She waits for him to get up. When he doesn't, she realizes that she's straddling him, and not in the fun way. Her thighs have a death grip on his hips that can't be comfortable. She releases him. His lips twitch.

Natasha gets up stiffly, her muscles far too tense. She retrieves a bottle of vodka and two glasses, dropping them onto the kitchen table carelessly and sloppily pouring the alcohol. The first drink goes back without a thought. She doesn't even feel the burn. She knocks back the one she'd poured for James. It doesn't help. She refills both glasses.

James watches her carefully. "You might wanna sit down."

Natasha sits down and throws back her third shot. She swallows slowly, closing her eyes at the comforting, familiar burn she can finally feel. James sits next to her but doesn't reach for the shot she'd poured for him, both not wanting it and not entirely sure she doesn't plan to drink it. He watches her carefully, not bothering with subtlety. Her hands shake, although she's so controlled that it's hardly more than an occasional twitch. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks damp and stained with mascara, her hair flat on one side of her face. He's never seen Natasha so . . . small.

She looks tiny sitting there in her chair. Hunched over with haunted, confused eyes. He wonders if this is what she thinks when she finds him like this, that he looks lost and abandoned and so goddamn hurt. He wonders if she looks at him and feels the same cruel wrench in his chest as he does now. "Natasha," he repeats her anglicized name again. It seems to ground her in the present.

Her eyes wearily meet his. She gives him a pitiful smile. "The whole repressed memory thing," she says, "not fun."

James sighs and steals a shot glass and the bottle. "No," he agrees. "Wanna start a notebook?"

"Hmm, we could be a twisted version of pen pals."

"Do people even write letters anymore?"

Natasha laughs just a little, or she tries, but the sound catches in her throat. She sips her drink. "It always starts out the same, like before," she admits. James nods, remembering the first time she'd had the dream. "I'm on the gurney, about to graduate. The doors are at the end of the hall, but I never reach them. I just roll along." The corners of her lips turn. "Just not this time. I got off the gurney. There were screams, and they just got louder and louder and louder the closer I got to the doors." She looks down.

James does, too. "You don't have to tell me," he says.

"I know."

He looks up.

"All this time, I thought those screams were yours, but they're not." That tiny, humorless smile is back. "They're mine."

The admission hurts both of them. Natasha knows that her mind doesn't entirely belong to her. Oh, she's too aware of that fact. She has a whole life of false memories to prove it, but now, just like years ago with Clint, she's confronted with the _truth_ of it. And it hurts. It fucking hurts. Not only does she have to deal with the fact that the memory was stolen, but she also has to confront the memory itself. She isn't sure which is worse.

James watches the emotions flicker in her eyes. He can't read all of them, but he thinks he gets the most important ones. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Frustration. What kicks him in the gut is that he _understands_. And that's new. It's always been Natasha understanding _him_. This is the first time that he understands _her_. This is the first time he's understood _anyone_ in so damn long. And he hates it, because he hates what it means.

It means that Natasha feels like he does, and he'd never wish that one anyone. Especially her.

"Did it all come back?" he asks. "I never . . . it's always pieces."

"No," she shakes her head, "there's something missing." She winces and rubs her temples. "Fuck, my head feels like it's been fried."

James takes a drink. "It'll fade after an hour or so," he says quietly as Natasha drains the rest of her glass and stands.

"Well," she says. "I'm gonna go to bed. Or try, anyway." Only she doesn't immediately head for the stairs. Natasha stares at James pointedly. "You're coming with me."

James blinks in surprise. "And that's a good idea?"

She wants to joke like she normally would—flash him a smile and keep her voice low. _Absolutely._

But she doesn't smile, and her voice cracks. "I may be the one screaming, but I'm still trying to get to you," she says. "I just . . . I need to be sure you're alright."

James still isn't sure it's a good idea. This morning feels far away. He doesn't know if he can separate his feelings now from his feelings from the past. He truly doesn't even know if he _wants_ to separate his feelings or ignore them completely. But he can't deny that in this moment, he's _feeling_.

Protective. Hurt. Angry. Compassionate.

And it's all because of Natasha. He wants to keep her safe because she was hurt. He's hurting because she was hurt. And he's _angry_. The girl in Prague that he'd known, so sweet and open and bold, she hadn't deserved this, and when he looks at Natasha standing in front of him now with hesitant eyes, he sees shades of the Natalia he remembers, and his answer slips from him without much more thought, "You don't snore, do you? I don't remember that yet."

Natasha's lips twitch. "I don't know. No one's dared to tell me."

They quietly go upstairs, Natasha leading the way, neither saying a word. Natasha is inwardly panicking and yet sure in her decision. She . . . she needs this. She needs him close. Her hands are still shaking, but she refuses to clench them into fists, and god, she's never had a headache quite like this one. And James . . . she remembers him doing this for her. She remembers being hurt on missions and him sneaking into her quarters to judge her wounds for himself. She remembers him kissing them better and she remembers giggling when he blew a raspberry on her bellybutton.

And she's never had that before, that kind of love and gentleness—even in her memory—until now.

Natasha misses it.

It's not awkward climbing into bed with James. Natasha takes the left side just as she normally would, and he wordlessly takes the right. There's none of the stuttering and blushing and chivalry that she had dealt with when she and Steve had been stranded in Brussels overnight in a cramped hostel with what hardly constituted as a twin bed. But it's different with James. They understand each other.

When they wake up the next morning, Natasha is halfway on top of James—leg hooked over his hips, arm over his chest, face buried in the crook of his neck. James is turned slightly toward her, his nose in her hair, his arm around her. They both lie still for a moment until Natasha sighs and nuzzles closer, shutting her eyes again. James starts to absently trace a path on her hip.

He can't remember a time he ever felt so warm.

* * *

 **Guh, feels. That's how you OTP.**

 **So . . . yeah, things are heating up on the romance front. Certainly in the past. Now in the present. It's funny how time really doesn't change anything, isn't it?**

 **But we all know how the story goes, don't we? We're more than halfway through this story, so prepare for angst as the end draws near. We've still got that one memory left to uncover, and we all know what it is.**

 **Alrighty, let's see . . . Nat gets the line from the next chapter.**

 _ **Preview from Ch14**_

 **Natalia - "You're not going anywhere, _soldat_."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes: Helloooo! How are we today? Personally, I'm exhausted and going cross-eyed because I thought it would be a good idea to read two books in two days on a tablet. I swear if I keep this up, I'll have glasses by the end of summer.**

 **Worth it.**

 **WARNING: Chapter contains secret shower sex.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.**

* * *

Chapter 14: Past

For once the water in the showers was warm.

James hadn't always cared about such things. Once all that would have mattered was that there was water, but now he appreciated the warmth and the steam and the way it relaxed his muscles. He dipped his head under the spray and closed his eyes, feeling the knots in his shoulders loosen and the subtle sting of the healing bullet wound in his shoulder. He leaned his head against the shower tiles.

It was the faintest scent that gave Natalia away.

An ordinary man wouldn't have noticed, and James thought that, perhaps, if he were distracted, even he might not have noticed. But James was so incredibly attuned to his little ballerina that he could even pick out her heartbeat beneath the patter of the shower spray on the tile. A smile split his face as he abruptly reached out behind him, snagging her wrist, and hauling her through the curtain and into the stall with him.

"You're getting better, _moya malen'kaya balerina_ ," he said, smirking when he looked down at her and his hands on her naked waist. He chuckled when she scowled.

"Bastard." Her arms wrapped around him, and he pulled her flush to him. Water clung to Natalia's eyelashes and slowly darkened her hair to a deep burgundy red. She smiled. "I missed you."

They fucked hard and fast against the tiles, Natalia's legs around him and his hands under her ass. The slap of flesh hitting flesh was muted by the shower, and both of them had mastered swallowing every sigh and moan. Natalia nuzzled him like a contented kitten as she came down from her high, while James breathed her in and listened to her heartbeat slow. When the water was as frigid as the snow outside, they left the showers separately.

When James snuck into her bed early that morning, she was awake and waiting for him. She let him curl around her until she was forced to recognize how completely he dwarfed her. Her response was to shuffle backward until she was firmly pressed against his chest and her legs her tangled with his. She let her hand run along the metal plates of his arm around her waist until she twined her fingers with his where his hand rested against her breasts. This type of affection—purely comfort—had been new and strange to her. Sharing heat, feeling skin on skin, the trust that she so willingly gave . . .

She felt safe. She'd never felt safe.

But she was safe, here, like this with James. When it was just her and him. James and Natalia.

 _You and me._

Here, she was _loved_.

"The test is tomorrow." James let his metal thumb brush her breast. "What do you think?"

Natalia closed her eyes. "I will survive. How long will you stay?"

"As long as I can."

" _Khoroshiy."_

 _Good_.

* * *

James left before dawn, managing by a stroke of luck not to wake Natalia as he slipped from the bed. He lingered by the window, unsure why. He simply stood and looked at Natalia, curled under the blankets like a cat, the top of her red head just visible. He felt a familiar swell of emotion in his chest. He still didn't know exactly what it was, but it didn't surprise him anymore. He expected the surge of warmth that was almost bubbly. Like the bath that they'd soaked in after a mission in Austria. He expected the flair of protectiveness that made his back straighten. He'd just recently accepted all that that feeling would entail. He'd disobey orders for her, and that grated deep within him like nails on a chalkboard, but he knew it to be true, and a small part of him relished the disobedience.

But there was something else that stopped him at the window, and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. He wanted to shuffle his feet. His stomach was hog-tied. His chest felt like a ton of bricks. He bit his lip.

Natalia shifted in the bed, but by the time she raised her head, James was gone.

He tried to get rid of the feeling slowly consuming him, but it only seemed to grow as the day passed. It clung to his shoulders like a snake, and James didn't trust it one fucking bit. These emotions were difficult for him. He didn't understand half of them, but he knew that they were all Natalia's fault. He'd been perfectly fine before he'd come to the Red Room.

It disturbed him to know that he still wouldn't change a single goddamn thing.

Because _Natalia_.

James wanted to bite his lip again, but forced himself to impassively answer Karpov's questions as they walked to the training room. "They are ready," he said.

Karpov remained expressionless, but James saw through it. The General was excited. Full of anticipation that made James want to punch a hole through his head. He forced his hands to stay relaxed at his sides. "Very good, Soldat. Any predictions?"

"Romanova is strong."

He didn't want to bring his ballerina's name to Karpov's attention, but Natalia was too strong and talented. For him not to bring her up first would be foolish. "She will survive," he said. "Pashina is quick, but sometimes sloppy. Liminova has a chance."

"No others?"

"The rest are weak."

"Such a waste."

James didn't comment.

When they reached the training room, he forced his gaze not to stray to Natalia. He knew if he looked, there was a chance his gaze would linger a half-second too long. He listened absently to Karpov as he stood by the Madame. Then it came time for the trial, and Natalia was up first. Someone put on a Tchaikovsky record in the corner, and the first note had hardly played before Natalia sprung at Pashina.

James realized then, as Pashina pulled a knife from her boot and nearly stuck Natalia like a piece of meat, that the feeling currently gripping his insides was _worry_.

It took everything he had to watch impassively, to keep his eyes sharp and cold as he watched Natalia dance. He had not been lying to Karpov when he said that Pashina was quick—quicker than Natalia, even, and the blonde could wield a knife just as well as he could. After all, he'd taught them how to use it. He didn't flinch when Natalia got cut. It was superficial, a glance on her forearm. An inch down and to the right, however, would have cut the radial artery.

Natalia would have bled out in minutes.

And he would have had to watch.

James was glad he'd chosen to stand with his arms folded over his chest. It allowed him to try his best to dent the bicep of his metal arm with his flesh hand with no one the wiser.

Yet despite his worry, he never for a second thought that Natalia would lose.

When she ended the fight by driving Pashina's knife into the girl's chest, he merely nods at her as everyone else politely claps. Then someone puts on a new record, and two more girls fight. It ended in a draw. Karpov ordered Liminova into the spar to settle the winner. She killed one of the girls within a minute, and Karpov decided that the other would die as well. There was no room for weakness in the Red Room. James pulled the trigger without hesitation.

It left Liminova and Natalia as the only two Widows left in the program.

James stood silently as Karpov praised both of them. Natalia was granted a night out to do whatever she wished, and she immediately asked to see the ballet. Liminova didn't let any of her jealousy show, but James saw it flicker like a flame behind her eyes. It made his gut clench when her eyes flitted to him. He didn't know what the look meant, but he knew it meant something he didn't like.

The girls were dismissed, and Karpov vaguely motioned him to follow. "This is most exciting, no?" he asked as they walked. "Your predictions were correct. Pity about Pashina. She was lovely."

James stayed quiet. He didn't think it mattered that Pashina had been beautiful. And he recognized now, that she had been beautiful. Blonde and blue-eyed. Innocence personified. She'd reminded him of his littlest sister—he still couldn't remember her name, but he knew her face—and watching Natalia kill her had been . . . uncomfortable.

Not difficult. He could have done it himself without hesitation, but where he would have felt nothing months ago, James would have regretted killing her today.

It seemed . . . senseless.

He understood creating the best agents possible. Yet every Widow that morning had been better, faster, and smarter than every soldier in the compound. And three of them were dead. It didn't make sense to him. He couldn't make sense of their deaths, and he couldn't make sense of how he felt about them. Because he shouldn't _feel_ anything.

But he did.

He felt uneasy all day. Unsure, uncertain. He found himself questioning things he'd never thought to question before. Whether what he was doing was right, whether the Red Room, whether HYDRA was right. They wanted to build a better world, a stronger world. James agreed with that. His memories were full of death and destruction. He remembered fire and explosions and killing. A war. He knew it was a war, knew what was expected of war, and he didn't want to ever experience it again.

There were faces that he remembered. Laughing faces. Men in his unit, he thought. A big man with a mustache who always had a flask or a cigar in his hand. A Frenchman who told lewd jokes with a blush. He remembered his CO the clearest. Tall. Blond. _A goddamn pain in the ass_.

James knew in his gut that he'd lost all of them. Friends. He'd had friends, and they were gone, and it was the war's fault.

So if HYDRA could end all wars, if they could usher in an era of peace the world had never known . . . surely that was right?

The problem was that James didn't see anything in the Red Room that seemed _right_.

Catching soldiers sneaking into the Widows' quarters . . . killing perfectly capable operatives . . . withholding rations as punishment . . . torture . . .

Sometimes James dreamt of screams, and he always woke up with his head burning.

None it seemed right.

It was a risk, but he snuck into Natalia's room that night. Normally, he tried to keep his visits random. He'd already planned to go to her three days from now, but he needed to see her. He needed to hear what she thought. He trusted her more than he trusted himself.

Natalia sat at her vanity, a hairbrush in hand, humming quietly to herself. She didn't know the song, but it comforted her in the strangest way. She must have heard it somewhere. She was just starting the song again when she looked into the mirror, her eyes inexplicably drawn to her window. When James appeared a second later, she gave him a delighted smile as she tossed her hairbrush onto the vanity and crossed the room to meet him.

" _Moy soldat_ ," she smirked as she slid her hands along his shoulders. "Always surprising me." She kept her face cutely tilted toward his, expecting a kiss or one of his special little smiles, only to frown when she saw how troubled he looked. "James?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he ran his hand along her arm, gently pulling it away from him so he could see the white bandage around her forearm and feel the neat row of stitches it hid. Natalia sighed, fondly exasperated. "It's just a cut, James," she said. "It's nothing."

James shook his head. "No, it's not."

He slipped from her arms to walk further into the room. He normally would sit on her bed and watch while she brushed her hair. Once, he'd even done it for her, twisting her hair into a braid almost absently, like he'd done it hundreds of times. He didn't do that now. He stood with his arms across his chest, so like he had earlier in the training room, only now his face was far from impassive. His brow was furrowed deeply, his eyes dark and confused, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

"James," she said warily.

"We're not good people," he said.

She didn't disagree. "No, we're not."

"Is what we do good?"

Natalia frowned. His questions didn't scare her, but they seemed to reverberate deep in her bones. She shook the feeling away. "Define _we_."

"HYDRA, the Red Room, all of it."

"Where is this coming from?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"We're trying to create a better world," she said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. James had never questioned her like this, and his own anxiety seemed to be prickling down her spine. "It's not always pretty. Where is this coming from, _soldat_?" she repeated.

James ran a hand through his hair. It was a tick of his, one that he'd never had until a month ago, and Natalia noted the move with narrowed eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I just . . . Pashina and the others . . . they didn't have to die today."

"Of course they did. They failed."

"Did they? They were better operatives than any of the soldiers here."

"There is only one Black Widow. That's how it works."

"They didn't have to be Widows. They could have just been agents."

"They were weak."

"Define weak," he challenged. "You're weaker than me. Does that mean I get to kill you?"

Natalia gritted her teeth. "You could try," she dared. "But that's hardly what I meant. You know that."

"Losing _one_ fight isn't a show of weakness," James insisted. "Losing one battle doesn't mean you lose the war."

"We're not fighting a war, James."

"Aren't we?"

His tone brought Natalia up short. It was so confused, so completely lost and angry, that she wasn't sure what to do. Or what their conversation was actually about. It felt like more, like a moral dilemma they were both supposed to be above but weren't. Only Natalia couldn't see anything wrong. The Red Room was harsh, but then so was the world. So was life. The only difference was that Natalia was prepared for it.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "All that matters is the mission."

"That's all that matters?"

"Yes."

"Then what is it we're doing here, Natalia?" he demanded.

"What—"

"You and me," he took a step toward her, "us, whatever the fuck you wanna call it."

"James," she warned.

"Was I a mission? You were content to stay in the shadows until I came here. Then you're establishing rapport, getting me alone for private lessons, getting me in your bed, all for what? An advantage?"

Natalia's eyes flashed. "Don't you _dare_ , James. I—"

"Is that all I am? An _asset._ I train you, I fuck you, and you get to be _Black_ _Widow_."

He said the name like a slur. Like all the other soldiers did. _No man could survive her_. For all her talents, all her skills, she was just a pretty face with a prettier smile. A slut. A whore. But she was more. She was so much better. And she'd fucking earned it, and she was _proud_ of it.

And James was so, so wrong about how she felt about him.

So even though his words hurt, she swallowed her response to stare into his eyes searchingly. He was so angry. She'd never seen such rage in his eyes, but she recognized it. It was that harsh, directionless rage you felt when something was beyond your control, when you felt trapped and helpless, and she didn't know what could possibly make her _soldat_ feel like that.

She thought it was her silence and steady gaze that made him blink, made him realize that he'd pinned her to the wall, gripping her arms tight enough to bruise. His grip loosened and his eyes slowly widened in confusion and regret. "I'm sorry," he said, letting her go and backing away. "I'll go."

"You're not going anywhere, _soldat_."

"Natalia."

"Sit down, James."

She wound her fingers through his and tugged gently on his hand, leading him toward the bed. He sat, and she settled next to him, resisting the urge to straddle him like she normally would. She didn't want him to feel trapped. "I didn't mean it," he said. "Natalia, I . . ."

"Don't worry about it. Just tell me where this is coming from."

James ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. I don't . . . I don't know." He rubbed his temple as if he had a headache, and Natalia wondered if his memories had anything to do with his behavior. She didn't like seeing him like this. Her _soldat_ wasn't meant to look lost and small. And she worried what would happen if anyone else thought for a moment that he was weak.

She didn't think he was weak. No, not her _soldat_. But these memories . . . this past that had so obviously been taken from him . . . she saw the benefits. There was no room in their lives for this sort of sentiment. There was no room for second-guessing or moral high-ground. The world was cruel and harsh and to survive it, you had to be willing to compromise if you wanted to see it grow and become better. If that meant lying, cheating, and killing—then so be it.

Yet that wasn't all she was or all she could do.

Natalia Romanova could love.

The Soldat wasn't supposed to remember, and the Black Widow wasn't supposed to love.

But they did.

"I'm compromised," James said finally, looking at the floor between his boots.

Natalia smiled ruefully. "So am I."

* * *

 **This little argument is one my favorites. It's fun to see James questioning things and forcing Nat to face them, too. Yay.**

 **Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited. I love you all, my precious.**

 **Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Clint! - "These answers don't exactly inspire confidence, Nat."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **AC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello. We're back for another chapter, and this one, I warn you, is back to your regularly scheduled angst.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.**

* * *

Chapter 15: Present

It's raining. Again.

Four fucking days of straight rain. Her flowerbeds (measly though they were) had washed away completely yesterday, leaving a smearing black bloodstain on dead grass. Last night they'd lost power, and she'd woken up with frozen feet and no James to press them to. He'd spent the night on the couch.

She knows his reasons, even if she doesn't agree with him. Natasha's fingers delicately skim the tender, bruised skin of her throat as she sits in one of the rocking chairs on the porch. One foot stays on the ground to push herself back and forth while the other helps to prop up her book. She watches the rain fall as she continues to touch her neck.

She doesn't blame James. She knows exactly who she'd invited into her bed, and she knows the risk of waking him during a nightmare. She knows and she understands and she doesn't blame him for waking up ready for a fight.

Once the rain stops, they'll have to go into town to replace the coffee table. James doesn't remember slamming her through it, doesn't remember her foot breaking his nose, or how he'd nearly sunk a knife between her ribs. But Natasha remembers his wide eyes as he suddenly, _finally_ woke up. She remembers his confusion and then dawning horror as he scrambled off of her, leaving her gasping on the floor and clutching her throat. She remembers him taking in the toppled furniture and her torn nightdress and jumping to all the wrong conclusions. She remembers him leaving, walking barefoot into the rain, and coming back hours later, soaked to the bone and shivering with lost, begging eyes that looked away every time he saw her throat.

They haven't spoken since. Thirty-seven hours and counting.

And it's still fucking raining.

When her phone buzzes and she recognizes the number as one of Clint's burners, she almost doesn't answer. Unfortunately, she knows from experience that if she doesn't answer, he'll only keep calling until she does. The record is fifty-three. He'd resorted to calling every five minutes on the dot. Like a child.

She answers the call, blinking in surprise when his face pops up on her screen for a video call. She hadn't even noticed. Well, shit.

"Hiya, Nat," he says. "Glad to know you're alive. That's good."

"I've missed you, too."

"I leave you in D.C. with Rogers for, what—six months?—and you destroy SHIELD. Not gonna lie, I feel a little left out. And unemployed."

Natasha smirks. "I'm sure you'll figure something out," she says. "How's the family?"

"Good. Ava had her first recital the other day. Sent you the video."

"Haven't checked my email in a while. I'll look for it."

Clint nods, and in typical Clint-fashion, looks pointedly at her neck. "So, are you gonna explain that?" he asks. "Or is this some kind of kink that I didn't know about?"

She chuckles, but it gradually fades into a heavy sigh. "Don't worry about it," she says. "It's nothing."

"It's something, Nat. What are you up to?"

"I can't tell you."

It's the first time in years that she's denied him. Clint has been her secret keeper since the day she joined SHIELD, and there's little that she hasn't told him. He's the first person she ever trusted with her life and her heart. She loves him in a way that she'll never love anyone else. He's her bridge. Always supporting, always leading, always taking her to new places within herself. He's so much of the reason that she's Natasha Romanoff, and she owes him a debt she'll never repay.

But she can't tell him about James.

It's not that she thinks he'd turn her in. Or James, for that matter. In fact, she knows that he would be on her side, that he'd been on James's side. But she can't betray Steve more than she already has.

"Just how much trouble are you in?" Clint asks, and she smiles dryly. "Oh, great. That's great." His face grows serious. "Level with me, Nat. Are you okay?"

"Physically, yes."

"Mentally?"

"Complicated."

"Emotionally?"

"Fucked."

"These answers don't exactly inspire confidence, Nat."

"I'll be fine, Clint."

"You said that in Budapest, and look how that turned out."

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," she says with a slight smirk, and Clint sighs in defeat.

"Dammit, Romanoff."

"Why'd you call, Barton?"

Clint breaks into a smile, the one that softens his eyes and makes him look ten years younger. Natasha knows that smile. "You're kidding," she says. "Again?"

Clint chuckles. "Due early August."

"I've been waiting for a little Natasha. Took you long enough."

"Hey, saving the world is time-consuming. And exhausting."

"Maybe you're just getting old."

"I don't wanna hear any old jokes out of you, Granny."

"It's Auntie Nat."

"You must be spending a small fortune to hide all that gray."

"Goodbye, Barton. And congrats, you asshole."

She hangs up with a smile, making a mental note to call Laura when she can. She's still looking at her phone when the screen door squeaks. James stands hesitantly in the doorway as she meets his eyes before he slowly steps onto the porch and lets the door slap shut behind him. He moves tentatively, as if she's a deer he's afraid to startle, but she only continues to rock in her chair as he sits in the rocker next to hers. She inwardly snorts at the picture they make—senior citizens in rockers on a porch. All they needed was a pot of black coffee and passersby to wave at.

Unlike when she had sought him out at the pond, Natasha doesn't break the silence. She's ready to sit in silence for however long James wants, because this is important. At the pond, there had been room to push. Here, Natasha _needs_ to wait. James needs her to wait.

So she waits.

Her mind wanders to their past in the Red Room. She replays sneaking onto the roof and drinking whiskey from a flask. She smirks ever so slightly as she remembers a particularly long night in Tokyo when their rendezvous was delayed, leaving them with three precious hours in a five-star hotel room. They stole champagne (her idea) and drank it in the Jacuzzi (his idea). There were smaller moments like the one time she'd found a flower on her pillow or the time they skinny-dipped in the middle of winter on a mutual dare.

Natasha shivers even as she smiles.

Her thoughts eventually drift away from Russia to the States, to New York, to D.C. New York makes her think of the Avengers and Loki and fucking _aliens_ —the crazy sci-fi plot that had put her on her course, saving the world, wiping the blood from her ledger. She doesn't belong in that kind of world. The front lines. Being a hero.

She operates best in the shadows, and she's for damn sure not any kind of hero.

 _Can you really wipe out that much red?_

D.C. makes her think of Steve. She remembers moving him into his apartment and watching _Friends_ , a joke that completely backfired on her when she realized that she actually liked Rogers. Really, genuinely liked him. He's a chatterbox if you give him something to talk about, and it's so fun to catch him blushing when he realizes he hasn't given you a chance to say anything for ten minutes. He double knots his shoelaces and could burn water if left unsupervised in the kitchen. She'd nearly pissed herself laughing the time he'd tripped over his own shield.

It's wonderfully refreshing to know that Captain America, the living legend, was actually just a dumb, giant blond dork.

Natasha looks at her phone. Part of her wants to call just to hear from him. He's always in the back of her mind. She wonders where he is, what cold lead he's following. She hopes that when he inevitably discovers that she's sent him on a wild goose chase, he'll forgive her. She's worked so hard to win a trust that she still doesn't believe she deserves. After all, just how long did it take her to go behind his back? Twenty-four hours?

"You didn't tell him," James says, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turns her head toward him. James looks down a second after her eyes meet his. "Barton."

"He doesn't need to know."

James glances up at her again, his eyes lingering on her neck. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Not your fault." He scoffs. Natasha raises a challenging brow. "Would you have done it if you'd been in your right mind?"

 _In your right mind_. They both cynically acknowledge the irony, but James huffs and looks away again, "No."

"Then it's not your fault," she says simply. "But I forgive you, if that helps."

"Not really."

"James."

He looks up, tired eyes meeting hers. For once he holds her stare for longer than a second, and she sees him in that extra time. The bags under his eyes that look more ghostly and haunted every day that passes. Memories of their past had blinded them both in a way, a light in the dark. But for every bit of their past that James remembers, he remembers ten more missions, ten more victims, ten more deaths. All at his mindless, deadly hands. And he doesn't just remember the people. He remembers the Soldier, how pleased he'd felt after completing a mission, how he'd been as clean as possible, hoping for a reward. In hindsight, he sees the manipulation of it all, recognizes that he had never had as much autonomy as he'd thought. He hadn't had any control at all.

And it's that lack of control that he hates most of all.

Because he remembers himself, too. Him, as he is now. Or Bucky. Or James. _Whoever_. He remembers being someone else, buried deep inside, a hopeless spectator fighting and fighting and _fighting_ to break free and failing _every_ _single_ _time_.

"It's getting worse," Natasha says. "Isn't it?"

"They're clearer the longer I'm here," he admits. "It's less pieces and more of a picture. Whole days, sometimes, and I remember it all. What I saw, what I thought . . ." He shakes his head. "It's hard to know who I am when I wake up."

"Well," she says after a moment, "next time, I'll be faster."

James glances at her sharply. "No."

"My toes got cold last night," she says. "And for a Winter Soldier, you're ironically like a furnace."

"Natasha."

"It's a tight squeeze on the couch."

"I'll manage."

"But I like some room to maneuver."

"That's why you have a bed. To yourself."

"Did it help or not?" she challenges. "Until the other night, did it help?"

James looks away in frustration. He knows without looking that Natasha's giving him smug eyes, her lips twitching as she fights a smirk. He loves that smirk, but when he turns to see it, he's distracted by the ring of purple around her throat like a macabre necklace. "I'll hurt you," he says eventually.

Natasha shrugs. "I'll hurt you back. How's your nose?"

He sniffs automatically. "Sore. You?"

"I've had worse."

James thinks it's twisted how he wants to smile. He and Natasha share a look, eyes full of dark humor. Natasha gives him that smirk again, and he has to fight to stay expressionless. She sees through him, of course, and she hums smugly before looking out toward the yard. "Rain's stopped," she says.

James takes a deep breath. "For now."

Their tentative peace holds for a week, just long enough for both of them to begin to ease into familiarity and expectation. James's nightmares are just as frequent and vivid, yet he awakes as himself, in full control, and Natasha is there to soothe without words. She just presses a hand to his chest and eases him back onto the pillows. Her hand always lingers like a tether to reality, and sometimes James will brush it away in favor of pulling her closer and burying his nose in her hair. The gesture is intimate and yet purely tactical. He's calmer when he holds her. He feels human, and the lingering coldness of the Soldier fades.

Natasha fills their days with as much fun as she can manage on a mountain in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Minnesota. She gets two paintball guns and challenges James to a game that lasts all day and well into the night. Hours after sundown, James finally gets a "kill shot", hitting Natasha square in the chest from a tree a hundred yards downwind. She makes him pancakes as a reward and tries not to roll her eyes at the boyish gleam in his eyes when she sits the stack of cakes in front of him.

One day they trudge through the mud and go into town for a matinee at an old theater showing _Ghostbusters_. They sit in the back row of the near-empty theater and share an obscenely large bucket of popcorn that they devour before the movie is even halfway through. Natasha entertains herself by pulling up the armrest separating their seats, curling into James's side, and inwardly cackling at the way his thigh tenses when she draws random patterns with her fingertip.

He stops her just when she's decided to run her finger long the thick seam of his jeans.

She pouts the rest of the film, and his only response is, "This isn't Kiev."

To which Natasha's eyes brighten even as her voice dips, "You remember Kiev?"

Then one morning she wakes up and he's gone.

Natasha sits up slowly as she reaches out to feel the temperature of the space next to her. Cold. She doesn't call out for him. She doesn't trust the silence in the cabin. It reminds her of that moment between breaths when she pulls the trigger.

She soundlessly eases out of bed and down the stairs.

James sits at the kitchen table. Wild hair. Red eyes. Wet cheeks.

A broken pen.

A ripped notebook.

A loaded gun.

Her voice is soft. "James?"

"Mission report," he says. His voice trembles. "December 16th, 1991."

She knows that date.

"James—"

"I knew him," he says. "He was my friend. I _knew_ him."

She takes a cautious step forward. "James—"

"He . . . he recognized me, Natalia. I killed him. I didn't remember."

The gun sits innocently on the table.

"James, look at me." She takes another step. "James, look at me."

"I killed his wife, too. All for the damn serum. He had Steve's blood."

"James, please look at me."

"They had a kid, didn't they?" His voice hitches. "Howard had a son, didn't he? I killed his parents. I killed them. I've killed so many people, Natalia."

"James, _moya lyubov_ ," she takes another step, "take your hand off the gun."

His grip tightens. "It would be better, wouldn't it?" he asks. "I deserve it."

"No, you don't, James. You're a good man."

He laughs, and his eyes glisten. "We both know that's not true."

She gently perches on the table in front of him and holds his face in her hands. "Look at me, James." Her voice is soft, but every syllable is heavy with command. It works. Blessedly, his eyes—so wild and pained and lost—meet hers. "You listen to me, _soldat_ ," she says. "You do not have my permission to die."

"Natalia," he whispers. "I—"

"I remember," she interrupts. "Not everything, but I remember enough. I knew you then, and I know you now. You don't deserve to die."

He shakes his head. "The things I've done . . . there's no forgiveness."

Natasha takes a shaky breath. "Someone once told me that all sins are forgivable when someone loves you."

She doesn't know if she believes it, but in that second she doesn't care. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that James is looking at her and not the gun. She wants to hide from his gaze, but she can't, and so she braves his piercing, searching eyes, praying that'll he'll find something, _anything_ to keep a bullet out of his brain.

She doesn't know if she loves him, but she knows that she can't lose him.

 _Not again._

"Natalia."

Her name is a curse and prayer, but he lets go of the gun and holds her instead, burying his face in her stomach. She murmurs soothingly in Russian as she runs her fingers through his hair, ignoring the fact that she's crying, too.

* * *

 **Um . . . yeah . . .**

 **So this chapter, specifically this last scene, is based on a line from Bucky in the comics, where he says that he would have put a bullet in his brain if not for Nat. I really wanted to incorporate it because it's a great line and it really hits you hard and reminds you that Bucky is dealing with some serious shit. It's easy to get caught up in the romance, but at heart this story is really about getting Bucky to the place that we see in Civil War. So many, many, many feels.**

 **Next time in _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . "Something . . . something's wrong with me." - Natalia**

 **Reviews give Bucky a hug.**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Hello, hello! This update is a little later than usual, but that's what happens when you forget to do a final edit and then work all morning. Whoops.**

 **Anyhoo, this chapter is short! But it really packs a punch. I was always curious about Drakov's daughter that Loki mentions in Avengers. This is my take.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or any of it's characters.**

* * *

Chapter 16: Past

Natalia didn't think anything of her assignment until she held a knife in her hand and stood over a little girl in her bed.

Anastasia Drakova. Aged 7. Blonde, blue-eyed, and angelic. Fat, pink lips and long, curled eyelashes. She was the daughter of an ugly man. Aleksander Drakov. Russian KGB. Defector. Sold HYDRA information to SHIELD in exchange for a VISA and a clear conscience.

SHIELD had placed them in a safe house outside of St. Petersburg. An out-of-the-way countryside cottage that was quaint and cute, something like you'd see on a postcard, only now it was marred by the four dead SHIELD agents that had hardly known to stop her before she'd slid her knife into their throats. One on the perimeter. One at the door. The other in the kitchen making coffee. The last taking a piss and having a smoke in the back.

Natalia hadn't made a sound. She hadn't flinched at the blood or the immediate stench as the agents' bowels spilled. Death hadn't fazed her for so long now that she wondered if she'd ever feared it. She was trained for this. She was born for this. She was a Black Widow.

And so she didn't understand how she could be hesitating now.

Drakov's daughter slept on, entirely oblivious to her surroundings. Natalia would have woken the second someone stepped inside the house, would have been on her feet, a knife in her hand—just like now, oh, yes just like she stood now—ready for an attack that would surely come. But not Anastasia Drakova. Anastasia Drakova did not know death. She had no training, no survival skills. Look at her now. So goddamn peaceful and naïve.

Natalia hated her for a moment, and she didn't understand why.

It still wasn't enough for her to act.

But she felt the time coming. It would be soon. It had to be. Already she had lingered too long. Every second she wasted was a strike against her, and she knew it. Black Widows did not hesitate. She knew that. She _knew_ that.

Her grip on her knife tightened. The blood on her fingers had nearly dried. Too long. She'd waited too long.

Her heartbeat faltered as she took a step closer, and she thought of what James would say if he were here, standing over her shoulder or watching her through the scope of his rifle. _What are you waiting for, Natalia? You have a mission._

But that didn't feel right. Maybe it was her own conscience, but she thought that James would hesitate, too. Now. Not when she had first met him, the day he'd so mercilessly beaten her to the mats. No, not that harsh Soldat. But _her_ Soldat, _her_ James . . . the one who had sneaked so cavalierly into her quarters before she'd left Moscow with that goddamn sinful smirk on his face as he pinched her side to make her laugh before she could scold him. Not that she would have. She loved him.

Black Widows were not supposed to hesitate, and they were not supposed to love.

The blankets rustled.

Sleepy, sleepy blue eyes blinked up at her.

The girl didn't scream, didn't look confused or scared. Just blinked and looked. Painfully naïve and entirely unaware that she was about to die.

Natalia acted. The little girl was too shocked to even look afraid. Her throat was slit before she could even realize she was about to die, and it was Natalia who stared in horror at the dark spray of blood that painted the headboard and the wall and sank deep into the pillow. She stared until she knew she'd never forget and then left without a word.

She stepped into the bathroom, ignoring the dead agent halfway in the tub with his pants around his knees and a still smoking cigarette between his fingers. The water in the basin of the sink ran red as she washed her hands. She watched it circle the drain until she was clean. She left the bathroom without ever looking into the mirror that had been staring at her.

The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked to her car. She could hear muffled shouts from the trunk. Normally she'd be exasperated or annoyed, but Natalia felt nothing. She only opened the trunk with the intent to quiet its occupant.

Aleksander Drakov didn't make use of his window. He didn't move to escape. He just looked at her with wet, pleading eyes. "My daughter! Have mercy! Oh, tell me you didn't, please, she's—"

Natalia silenced him with a fist and calmly shut the trunk.

Drakov was still unconscious when she met another agent at the rendezvous point. She watched as they hauled his body into another vehicle and drove away to another facility where he would be punished for his betrayal. Perhaps they would dump his body on SHIELD's doorstep once they were done with him. Natalia didn't care.

It was a mindless journey back to the compound. The Madame congratulated her with false warmth and cold pride. Natalia only nodded in assent. The words of thanks that left her lips were empty and automatic. It made the Madame smile.

Natalia felt nothing as she walked through the house to her quarters. Her mind was blank, her thoughts sluggish. She stripped once she entered her room, a romantic trail of clothes following her to the bathroom as if James needed breadcrumbs to find her. Only he wouldn't find her. He'd left for a mission the day before. He wouldn't be back for days.

So when she stood under the spray of the shower, face heavenward as if seeking absolution, only to feel a hand touch her shoulder, she nearly slit James's throat with her razor. She opened her mouth to scold him—because what the hell did he think he was doing, scaring her like that? Not that she should have been caught off guard in the first place—only she gasped. As if she _was_ scared. But surely she wasn't. She couldn't be.

And James kept staring at her as if something was wrong. He looked worried. She didn't understand why he would look worried. She'd never seen him look worried. Why the fuck was he worried?

And why couldn't she breathe?

"Natalia," James's hand held her face, "what happened?" He scanned her for injuries but found none. "What's wrong, _vozlyublennaya_?"

Natalia gaped at him. "What do you mean?" Her words were choked. "I'm fine."

"You're crying."

"Don't be ridiculous."

James held her face in both his hands, forcing her to look at him, and he looked so damn sad that her chest heaved. "Natalia," he said softly.

" _James_."

Natalia cried. Not at all like the practiced, pretty tears she could let fall on command. No, this was ugly. Her eyes scrunched. Her nose ran. She couldn't take a deep breath no matter how hard she tried. She just stood under the spray and shook like a frightened fawn, her face tucked into James's soaked t-shirt. When the water ran cold, she was quiet, though she shook in James's arms as he lifted her up and shut the water off. Every part of her wanted to move, to dry herself off and dress, but she just couldn't make her limbs work. So she was limp as a broken doll while James took care of her, eventually tucking them both into her small bed and wrapping himself around her like a thick, muscled blanket.

It was warm and smothering and safe.

James didn't ask questions. He wanted to. They were nearly tripping off of his tongue, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he began to hum. The melody surprised him. He didn't recognize it, but there was a deep sense of familiarity and comfort that came with the tune. He'd done this before. He _knew_ that he'd done this before, in his other life that was just as fascinating as it was fragmented.

Hours passed. Natalia drifted off to sleep, but James stayed awake as if a nightmare would burst through the door. His mind oscillated between wondering what could have happened to upset her and what it meant for his red ballerina. He'd never known her to show weakness. She'd weathered her share of pain with a proud chin and a straight spine. Even in their most intimate moments, she kept part of herself from him. Always open and (dare he think it, _loving_ ) but never completely vulnerable. Not like now.

So he waited. He waited with more patience than he'd known he had, and as the hours passed he realized that he cared little, in the end, if he ever found out what had happened. What mattered (and wasn't it the most curious, unnatural, _right_ thing) was that he was there and that Natalia knew it.

She broke the silence in the suffocating grey of pre-dawn. "I've been compromised."

James initially thought that she meant him. Them. But no, that couldn't be right.

"I nearly failed my mission," she said. "I hesitated, James. I've never hesitated before. Something's . . . something's wrong with me."

"I don't believe that."

Natalia pulled away from him and felt the immediate cold on her skin. She folded her arms around her stomach and stared at the wall across from her. "It's because of us. This . . . _thing_. It has to be. You've made me—"

"Weak," James finished.

Natalia glared at the wall. "Yes."

James understood that he should agree with her. He'd noticed changes in himself as well that had nothing to do with his sparse memory and everything to do with the redhead next to him. He was gentler, softer. He _thought_ more. About everything. His life, his past, his emotions, his relationships, his missions. He thought about what it all meant, what it might say about him, whether HYDRA was right, whether he was _good_. He had few answers, but that mattered little. The questions mattered. His thoughts, his mind, it felt more and more like _his_ with each day.

In hindsight, James realized that he was a dumb, love-struck bastard to think that his growing freedom would have no consequences, that somehow he could have kept it secret. But in that moment, he thought he could. He thought that maybe it made him better, made him different, made him _free_. And he couldn't give it up. He wouldn't.

And he refused to let Natalia, his sweet little ballerina, think that feeling, that _thinking_ , was weakness.

"I'm never stronger than when I'm with you, Natalia," he said quietly.

Natalia's easy breathing hitched before relaxing once again. She didn't react when he leaned up, his lips brushing her bare shoulder. She fought a shiver and the odd, blissful warmth that followed. The heat swallowed her heart, drowning her in comfort and leaving her craving more. James, sensing her struggle, let his lips lightly drag along her shoulder to her neck. He placed a kiss behind her ear, and Natalia sighed. "You drive me crazy," she sighed, frustrated but resigned.

She felt James smile against her skin. "The feeling is mutual."

"James?"

"Hmm?"

"This won't end well," she said. "You know that, don't you? People like us, we don't get happy endings."

James paused his ministrations. She was right. He knew that. But there was that light, that warmth in his chest that made him feel like he could fly, and he couldn't force it away, couldn't do anything but let it consume him and cloud his mind with what-ifs and maybes.

After all, it had been so, so long since James Buchannan Barnes had felt hope.

He kissed Natalia, long and deep and determined, and he spent the rest of the night trying to make her believe, too.

* * *

 **Yep, I really like this chapter.**

 **So! Tap that review button. Drop me a line. I love to hear from y'all.**

 **Next time on _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . Natalia - "Do you think we're good people?"**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello, hello! Thank you guys for all the reviews. They're lovely, and I adore you all.**

 **Now *rubs hands together* let's get to where we all know this story has been leading.**

 **WARNING: Rated M for sex and torture and trigger-y things . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. The characters aren't mine but I love them all the more for it.**

* * *

Chapter 17: Present

 _She's on the gurney again, but it doesn't bother her. Not initially. She's been on this ride before. She knows how it ends._

 _But something's different this time._

 _As she stares up at the lights, they begin to zap and flicker. Tendrils of electricity dance from the light bulbs and snake across the ceiling, growing louder and louder the closer she gets to the doors. No. She doesn't want to be here. No, no, no. She has to get away. She has to run. She has to escape. They can't . . . no . . . she won't forget, she won't . . ._

 _The gurney vanishes, and rough hands grip her shoulders. Her feet drag along the cold floor but no one seems to care. Her thoughts are muddled and slow due to the sedative but it's wearing off fast. She thinks if she has just another thirty seconds, she can muster up the energy to incapacitate her captors. They won't expect her to have recovered so quickly. They're always underestimating her._

 _Twenty seconds. She can twitch her toes._

 _The doors are too close. She's hauled through them, and that's when she sees it. It sits in the back of the room, a plain leather chair you'd see at a dentist's office but surrounded by an arch of metal. Heavy restraints lock around the arms, far too large to hold her, meant for someone much bigger, much stronger._

 _James._

 _Karpov waits like a disappointed parent, arms folded in front of him, hands wrapped around a red leather book embossed with a familiar Soviet star. "It is a pity I should have to do this, Natalia," he says as she's brought forward._

 _Fifteen seconds._

" _Yes, a pity," she agrees. "How about we just put it behind us?"_

 _He laughs, genuinely amused, and then backhands her sharply across the face. When she looks up, his face is inches from hers. "I allowed you and the Asset your fun, and this is how you repay me?"_

 _She lifts her chin defiantly. "I love him." She's never said it aloud before, and the words are sweet on her tongue._

 _But Karpov only tuts, "Love is for children."_

 _Five seconds._

 _Karpov shouts orders, and she's dragged toward the chair. Three seconds. No, no, no, no. She uses the front of the chair as a springboard and flips over guards' shoulders, slamming their heads together as she lands. Her momentary victory is short-lived, because then Karpov is there with one of her own Widow's Bites and she crumples._

 _No._

 _She's half-conscious from the shock, and she thinks that's why she's silly enough, desperate enough to call for him. "James," she murmurs._

 _Her mind clears a little more at the sound of the restraints clicking into place. "James!"_

 _Karpov talks heatedly with the scientists, urging them to start the machine. She doesn't know why until she hears a roar and a sharp bang of metal on metal. She can't move her head, it's in some sort of restraint, but her eyes dart to the left. She swears she can feel the whole room shudder when the next bang echoes. Karpov starts to shout, but she can still hear her name._

" _Natalia!"_

" _James!"_

 _There's a cackle of electricity as the machine comes to life. The restraints tighten. No, no, no, no. She closes her eyes and tries to steady her breathing. It's hopeless. She can still hear James, cursing and calling. He's close to busting down the door. She knows it. Everyone's frantic around her as the machine charges. She can hear the guards moving, hear their guns cocking._

 _The last words she hears are from Karpov._

" _Remember, Natalia: Love is for children."_

She gasps as she lurches from the bed. James is calling for her, and the sound of his voice has her scrambling for the bathroom. She falls to her knees just in time to vomit into the toilet. Everything in her stomach comes up but she continues to heave anyway. When she feels metal against her shoulder, she flinches and then curses at the intake of breath she hears behind her.

"You remember," James says.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine."

She shakes her head. "It's not." Taking a deep breath, she flushes the toilet and swallows, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "It's not your fault, James."

Though she stays on the floor, she turns around and leans against the pedestal sink. James mirrors her, though he's as far away from her as he can get, pressing his shoulders against the lip of the bathtub. Though he's not looking at her, she can see the tears lurking in his eyes. "It's not your fault," she repeats.

"There are two sides to every story," he says eventually. "I still don't remember mine."

"Would it be wrong of me to hope that you never do?"

His lips twitch sadly. "I won't hold it against you."

There's so much more to it than that, and she hears it in his voice, sees it in the defeated set to his shoulders. She knows that she could order him to leave and he wouldn't fight her for a second. He'd walk out without a word. And that infuriates her, because he just has to be so goddamn noble, doesn't he? And so willing to accept blame that doesn't belong to him.

In so many ways, he's just like Steve. She wonders if either man even knows which traits they stole from the other. She supposes in the end it doesn't matter. She loves them both in such different ways, but in the end, both of them are a giant, super-serumed pain in her ass.

Squaring her shoulders, she slides across the tiled floor until she's right in front of James, who looks so ready to accept her judgement that she nearly slaps him. Instead, she pointedly reaches for his metal hand. He resists her for a second, but she tugs harder and he relents. Slowly, she places his hand over her heart. She knows he can feel it beat. He's tried to explain to her how it works, how he has a strange sense of feeling despite the metal, but the technicalities don't matter in this moment. He just needs to know that she's not afraid, that he'll always be hers, metal and all.

"Natalia—"

"It's just you and me," she tells him, even if they aren't the words she truly means. Everything is so clear to her now. She wonders how she could have ever doubted this, _them_. "You and me," she repeats.

He stares at her like he isn't sure she's real, but he says it back. "You and me."

 _I love you_.

They sit on the floor, staring at the other for a second longer, until James breaks the spell. He blinks and his eyes rake over her—mussed hair, glistening skin, red eyes, puffy nose—thinking that she's never looked smaller. Make it better . . . yes, he needs to make it better. "Why don't you hop in the shower," he says. "You'll feel better."

Natasha smiles briefly but nods. "Not a bad idea, _soldat_. You could wash my back?"

She's teasing him, and he's relieved to see the sparkle in her eye, even if it means fighting not to readjust the sudden tightness in his pants. "Even you're not that lucky, _vozlyublennaya_."

"Luck has nothing to do with it."

James smirks and leans closer. He can't help it. At this point, he thinks it's a foregone conclusion that there's no resisting the little spider in front of him. He's caught in her web with no escape and doesn't mind a damn bit. Fuck. "You couldn't handle it," he teases with a thread of warning. And challenge.

Natasha's smile is everything. "Bet," she dares simply.

He wants to, but he doesn't. He leans closer, his lips hovering over hers, feeling the warmth radiating from her and setting his skin on fire . . . only to grin before smoothly pulling away and standing. "I'll leave you to it," he says, turning on the shower with a quick flick of his metal wrist.

Natasha stares after him, inwardly incredulous though her lips settle into a thoughtful smirk as she watches him leave. The feeling of warmth and comfort lingers as steam fills the small bathroom, and for a few minutes, as she stands under the hot spray, Natasha is able to relax. But the spray steadily beats against the porcelain and her skin grows red and hot and the steam begins to suffocate her. She reaches out a hand to grasp the curtain as she feels her stomach heave and her chest contract. She closes her eyes as the memory assaults her again. The water on her head suddenly feels like bullets.

 _Love is for children._

 _Natalia!_

 _I love him._

 _Remember, Natalia . . ._

 _Just five more seconds._

 _James!_

Natasha pretends that her tears are from the shower as she slowly sinks to sit in the tub, wrapping her arms around her knees and hoping that James can't hear her sob under the pounding spray.

* * *

James sits on the couch, a book in his hand, as he listens to the shower run upstairs. He turns the page without having read a word. His mind is a place that he's grown used to navigating—a patchwork of picture and emotion, all tangled up with connecting threads. But for once, his mind is blissfully clear and focused. It's a wonder on the surface, nearly novel. He can still think and hear and feel. He feels whole. There's none of the Soldier's emptiness now.

He'd never thought he'd miss it.

Thoughts of Natasha flood him. Memories swim in and out of focus like ocean swells. She's young and beaming at him in the Red Room, an apple in her hand. Then she's older, her hair straight and sleek, her smirk darker as she stands next to him in the Smithsonian. Then she's young again, her head thrown back on her pillow, eyes closed and his name on her lips. He remembers plums and whiskey and rooftops. He remembers pain and longing and hope. And he feels it. Every second of memory, he feels deep in his bones until he thinks he may explode.

 _Just you and me._

 _People like us, we don't get happy endings._

 _I've worn so many masks. I don't know if any of them is actually me._

 _We're not good people._

 _You're a good man._

 _Keep sayin' things like that, I might not let you go._

 _I deserve it._

 _James, my love._

 _My love . . ._

 _Love . . ._

 _James!_

He shakes his head abruptly and stands. There's an unopened box of tea next to the coffeemaker, and James takes out a packet as he puts the kettle on. He doesn't want the tea. The tea is for Natasha. He hopes it'll calm her nerves. Or his. Maybe he will drink it.

 _James!_

He flinches. It isn't his fault. He knows that. They both knew the risks. He only wishes that Natasha hadn't had to pay for it. James would have taken all the blame, all the punishment. He wishes he could do that now. The memory is punishment enough.

But he can't. He can't do a single goddamn thing. And he wants to. He wants to make it better. He wants to do something to ease this godawful tightness in his chest. He thinks that holding Natasha might help, but surely she wouldn't want that. That would cross a line they mutually drew in the sand once they both remembered Prague. You don't just _remember_ and suddenly have everything fall into place. That couldn't be how things worked. They were both so different now. So old, so damaged. It couldn't work that way. It couldn't be that _easy_.

The kettle whistles. James pours the tea and holds the steaming mug in his flesh hand, letting the heat seep into his skin. His eyes flit to the stairs as his ears strain to hear past the gentle pounding of water against porcelain. He frowns. There's a hitch and then . . .

James is already on the stairs, tea forgotten on the countertop.

He doesn't give a thought to propriety or whether Natasha wants to grieve alone. He's pulling back the shower curtain, heedless of the water that splatters onto the tile floor and soaks his shirt, wrapping Natasha in his arms like he had done once before, decades ago. And just like last time, like they're both sixty years younger, Natasha fists one hand in the collar of his shirt and buries her face in his neck. James gently shushes her, murmuring nonsense as he sets about drying her off and pulling her arms through one of his flannel shirts that's lying forgotten on the floor from that morning. Natasha doesn't bother with the buttons, sniffing as she simply pulls it tight around her while James puts her to bed.

Once she's safe and warm, James debates leaving her be. He thinks he should. He thinks it's the polite thing to do, what his mother would tell him to do, but he stays. He perches on the bed next to her and brushes her wet hair from her eyes, and Natasha snakes out a hand from the blankets to grab his fingers before he can pull away. He lets her tuck their hands against her chest and sits patiently while she stares at the wall. He knows she'll talk when she's ready.

His patience is rewarded after nearly half an hour.

"Thanks," she says, her voice huskier than usual. She glances at him briefly. "I didn't mean to give you a free show. I'm classier than that these days."

James's lips twitch at her weak attempt at humor. "From what I remember, you were always classy."

Natasha snorts. "We're trusting _your_ memory?"

"I like to think it's getting . . ." not _better_ , but maybe, ". . . clearer." Natasha doesn't answer, but that doesn't bother him much. He thinks that he should feel uncomfortable, but he doesn't. Her, this . . . it doesn't faze him. And he knows it's because it's Natasha. It's because it's _them_ , and god, it had always been this way, hadn't it?

"Do you think we're good people?" she asks.

"Why?"

"Just answer the question."

He frowns. "You said that I'm a good man," he says. "I'm not, but then you're the only one who could understand that."

Natasha smiles feebly. "Yeah."

James runs his thumb over her knuckles. "Why?"

"Remember when I told you that people like us didn't get happy endings?"

He looks down. "I remember."

"You think I was right?"

She looks at him then, and this time she keeps her eyes on his. He's hopeless not to stare back, and he sees so much of her in this moment. He sees the Soldier's little spider—every bit of her tenacity and mischief is still there, fierce and bright—and he sees James's ballerina, all of her hope and passion and love. But there's so much more there, now. A deeper sense of sadness, a gleam of quiet wisdom, and a desperate loneliness. He sees the remnants of every battle, every scar, and he loves her.

Jesus Christ, he loves her.

It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense, but he loves her just as much as he did sixty years ago. Maybe more. Because they're both more now. Everything about them has grown and aged and now . . . she's here and he's here and he's fucking _missed_ her.

So he manages the smallest of smiles, so like the first precious few she'd coaxed from him all those years ago, and says, "I don't know, sweetheart. But I'm still here."

And Natasha smiles back.

"Keep saying things like that, and I might not let you go," she warns.

He smiles fondly. "We've had this conversation before."

"Hmm, I still like the arm."

His eyes close. "Natasha."

"You keep calling me that, too," she says. "What happened to Natalia?"

"You chose to be Natasha," he says. "And I happen to like her. Though don't hold it against me if I slip occasionally."

It means more than Natasha will admit, that he's talking to her now, being with her now as she is, as _Natasha_ , and not the girl that he remembers. She tugs him closer. "I don't mind," she says. "But I'm still calling you James. _Bucky_ sounds like a circus animal."

James chuckles. "I don't mind," he parries back.

"So, I'll be Natasha, and you'll be James."

He leans closer. He's hovering over her now, his free hand pressing against the pillow beside her head. "Just you and me."

"Yeah." She trails her fingertips across his jaw. "You and me."

Natasha isn't sure who moves first, but she sighs into the gentle brush of his lips against hers. It's nearly too sweet and yet not sweet enough. It's innocent and pure, just like she remembers, and she revels in the light of it. There is no darkness. Not in this moment. There's just them.

But she wants more.

It takes a hard tug on his hair, and then she's suddenly upright and surrounded, straddling his hips and burying her hands in his hair. James's arms wrap around her, dipping beneath the folds of his shirt that's already slipping from one of her shoulders. His metal arm is cool against her back and hums as he presses her to him. His flesh hand is hot like a brand as it slides up her ribs before settling over her breast. She sighs into his mouth when he squeezes. Her mouth opens in invitation, James doesn't hesitate. Natasha moans victoriously. It's damn near a chuckle.

He bites her lip. She bites back. It's just like a spar, just like a dance, and Natasha has always been a brilliant dancer.

James suddenly pulls away, and Natasha nearly pouts before she realizes that he means to pull his shirt over his head, and then she's reaching readily to help. The shirt, still damp from when he'd lifted her from the shower, lands with a smack against the wood floor. Natasha barely register's the sound. She's too busy mapping his skin with her fingers, mesmerized by how familiar and yet new he feels beneath her hands. There are new scars but she lets them be for now. She'll study them later.

For now, she trails her lips over his neck, working her way to his collarbone, licking and sucking and nipping like the little vixen James remembers so clearly, and then she's placing sweet kisses on the spiderweb of scars that leads to where skin meets metal, and he shudders. "Nat," he breathes. "Fuck, I missed you."

His hand slides through her hair and he pulls her lips back to his as he spins them, sending them tumbling to the middle of the bed. They land with a little bounce that makes Natasha laugh, and god, she can't remember the last time she laughed in bed. "Just as smooth as ever, James," she teases, and he growls as he nips her neck, his lips trailing tauntingly over the rise of her breast before abruptly ignoring her aching, pleading nipple as he starts a wet trail down her stomach that has her squirming even more. "I forgot you were such a cocky bastard," she growls when he once again stops just shy of where she wants him.

James smiles against her skin. "I'm remembering you," he says.

"Well, remember faster."

"You know, I don't remember you being so demanding."

In the next second, James is blinking up at her from his back in surprise. His hands automatically snake along her thighs to her hips, and he starts to grin as Natasha bends to hover over him, her hair parting to hide their faces in a curtain of red. "Yeah, well," she says. "I've got a few new tricks."

James leans up to claim her lips, and Natasha allows it, though she pulls back just when he means to deepen the kiss. He groans. "C'mon, I'll be good," he says.

"I don't remember you being so easy."

"Yeah, well," he parries. "I've been waiting for this literally longer than I can remember."

Natasha laughs again, the sound low and sweet in her throat, and James smiles against her skin before kissing her neck. She doesn't remember them being so lighthearted. She remembers quiet sighs and passionate embraces. There'd been no time for laughter. The risk of getting caught had been too great.

But there's no one to catch them now.

The mood shifts once there's nothing between them. Reality settles heavily over them, and all teasing stops. Every touch becomes deliberate, almost defiant, and Natasha lets her head fall back on the pillow as James once again takes his time with her, and she readily lets him. There's no question of who's in control. For once, she's readily surrendered.

And it's so incredibly freeing.

James is meticulous. For all her memories, she'd forgotten that, but she relishes it now as he catalogues every hitch in her breath, every moan, every sigh. It's been so long since she's been touched like this, since sex has meant anything other than a means to an end. She moans loudly when his metal hand, now just as warm as skin, begins to gently massage her breast while his hot mouth closes over her nipple, teeth and lips teasing and pulling.

"James," she sighs.

They go so slow. She thinks its half James's intent and half their mutual desire to savor memory and reality. Everything feels different and yet the same. She remembers feeling light and free in his arms, and that hasn't changed, but everything else has. She's not that Natalia. Not anymore. She's not so easily distracted, so capable of burying her head in the sand, if only for a few blissful moments. She's far too old for that now.

So even as she writhes beneath him, she begins to think about HYDRA, about the Avengers, about how this, _them_ , won't last. Just like before. She has a job to do. A life beyond this cabin. Eventually, much sooner than she'd like, she'll have to leave.

"Don't think about it," James says suddenly, kissing her sweetly. "This time will be different."

Her hands slide up his back. "How do you know what I'm thinking about?"

"Because I know you." He meets her eyes, more open and honest than she can ever remember. His eyes have never been bluer. "I'll always know you."

She's not ready for the overwhelming rush of love that floods her chest. The words are stuck in her throat, and she swallows them down. She's not ready to say it, and James isn't either. This right here is already pushing both of their limits. Sex isn't scary. Sex is nothing. It's just another weapon, another tactic that they've both used countless times. But _this_ , this is something else, something different, something deeper.

They come together gently, and it's like their initial kiss that started it all. Sweet. Slow. Even shy. For a split second, Natasha feels like she doesn't know what she's doing, like it's all completely new, but it fades once they slip into a steady rhythm. The whole world fades away. So does the time. She closes her eyes and falls. Back to a narrow bed in the Red Room, frost in the air but her skin on fire. Whispered words and sighs, gentle endearments and surrendered curses.

She'd loved him then. God, how she'd loved him then. And she feels it now, but she keeps it close to her heart. It's too soon, too early, and it wouldn't do either of them any good. HYDRA is still out there looking for both of them, all her secrets are out for the world to see, and she . . . she wants to keep just one secret to herself.

She's owed that.

It seems to last forever, and she knows that James is drawing it out on purpose. Now matter how hard she sinks her nails into his back or how delightfully she angles and twists her hips, he refuses to move any faster. "James," she finally pleads.

He buries his face in her neck. "Not yet. Not yet, sweetheart."

When they finally, _finally_ , collapse onto the mattress, she hums happily as she lets her fingers sift through his damp hair. James nearly purrs, and she sighs as his metal fingers brush her waist as he settles beside her. "Well, that was better than the memory," she says. "We should do it again to be sure."

He chuckles. It's really just a little chuff and barely a smile, but it's something. "Give me a minute," he says.

"Aw, did you throw out your back? What are you? Ninety-six?"

"Ninety-seven, you old crone."

"I think I look good for my age."

He pulls her closer, his scruff scratching pleasantly against her collarbone. His lips brush her neck. "You're still my red ballerina," he says.

She slides her fingers through his hair. "James?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"When you said that this time would be different."

He lifts his head and props himself up on his elbow to look at her. "Hey, it's you and me, alright?"

She smiles a bit. "You should awful confident for a guy who still doesn't remember half his life."

"I remember you. That's enough."

Natasha refuses to acknowledge just how much that means to her as she leans into his palm that cups her cheek and sighs. "Well," she says. "Who am I to argue?"

"It's just you and me."

"Just you and me," she repeats.

* * *

 **There you have it.**

 **Tell me what you think :)**

 **-AC**


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! I'm just back from Vegas and it was so fun! Exhausting, but fun. Oh, and my Dad bought 3 new horses! 3! I've got new boots in the mail, and life, my doves, is gooood.**

 **So here's our latest chapter! I hate that this story is winding down, but we've only got a few chapters to go!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

* * *

Chapter 18: Past

James flew the helicopter to the abandoned airstrip outside of Moscow absently, following the coordinates that felt ingrained into his brain while Karpov sat in the co-pilot chair and looked through his red leather book. James had noticed the book before, months ago when the pages were mostly blank. Now the pages were warped from use, black ink sprawled across the white paper.

Every now and then, Karpov would look over at him. The General meant to be sly about it, never making direct eye contact, pretending to shift in his seat and let his eyes wander. It was so goddamn obvious that Karpov would have ordered himself killed if it had been anyone else. James kept focused on the sky before him. If anyone was acting here, it was him, and he deserved a fucking Oscar.

These days, he felt like he was putting on a show. The Soldat. The Asset. It wasn't who he was anymore. Not completely. He forced himself to remain expressionless, to keep his eyes dead and blank. He took no pleasure in the sun on his skin or the cloudless blue sky. He cared for nothing and no one. He was a weapon, a tool for HYDRA.

He wasn't—he _couldn't_ —be James.

And it was exhausting, pretending to be something that he wasn't. He was fine being an assassin. The job he didn't question. He knew he was a killer, and he knew he was a damn good one. But the hows and the whys . . . he wanted to know those. He wanted to know where his orders came from and why, if he really was creating a better world one bullet at a time.

It wasn't the best moral dilemma to be having just when Natalia was to take her final test to become Black Widow, but she didn't seem to hold it against him.

Christ, he loved her for it.

He hadn't told her yet. He kept waiting for the right time, but every time he thought might be right, he found some reason to keep his mouth shut. He had to make it special. He . . . _they_ . . . weren't supposed to feel this way, they were supposed to be above such _sentiment_ , but James thought the Red Room underestimated human nature. He could love. The Asset, the Soldier, the Fist of HYDRA. And Natalia, his little spider, his ballerina, she could love, too.

So saying it . . . James had to make it count.

Maybe tonight. He'd been on a mission for a month in Africa dealing with warlords and blood diamonds and missing Natalia every damn second. The nights were cold without her next to him, the days long without seeing her smile. God, he couldn't wait to see her.

A car was waiting on the airstrip when they landed. James rode in the passenger seat while Karpov sat in the back, pen still scratching against his book. Once, James met Karpov's eyes in the mirror, and he couldn't explain it, but his gut suddenly felt like a piece of twisted iron. He looked out the window instead, pretending to check for a tail. He thought Karpov looked smug.

James didn't wait when they pulled in front of the Girls Academy that served as the front for the Red Room. The doors opened for Karpov as if he was Moses parting the Red Sea. A young soldier James didn't recognize rushed forward to collect his handler's coat and gloves. "Would you like anything to drink, General Karpov?"

"No, thank you. If you would tell the Madame I've arrived?"

"Oh, yes. She's been anticipating your arrival." The man's eyes slipped to James. "The trainee's are waiting in the training room, as you requested."

"Excellent," Karpov said with a slight smile.

"If you'd follow me, sir."

Music sounded in the hall as they were led deeper into the house, and James looked through an open set of double doors to his right where the music was the loudest. Little girls, perhaps no more than seven, spun in delicate pirouettes, yet there was already something deceptive in their grace that made James feel a twinge of sympathy and longing. What he wouldn't give to watch Natalia do what she had once loved so dearly. Perhaps he would ask her to dance tonight. Just for him.

Karpov stopped outside the door to the training room. "Soldat. I trust you've trained these Widows to the best of your ability. They are to be unbreakable."

"Yes, General," he answered.

"Good. The final test is about to begin."

He went to open the door only to pause and glance back with a slight smirk. "Any bets as to who will win?"

"It is not my place to have opinions."

"Come now, Soldat. Surely you have an opinion."

James hesitated a split second too long to avoid answering the question. "Romanova," he said truthfully. To outright lie when Natalia was clearly the stronger of the two seemed pointless, but the ensuing smile that twisted Karpov's lips made James wish he'd lied anyway.

"Noted. Now, shall we?"

He opened the door before James could answer. His eyes skimmed over the room, making note of every detail—the mirrors on the walls that let him observe everyone's slightest twitch, the ballet bar that Natalia had used as a springboard to launch herself onto his shoulders more than once, the give of the mats under his feet that always felt softer whenever he ended up on his back. There were more people than usual. A group of scientists that James didn't recognize at all and yet _knew_. The Madame and her minions. James felt her eyes on him, but he ignored it.

He scanned his students, once thirteen and now just two. A sense of loss tried to settle in his chest, but he pushed it back. Now wasn't the time for him to . . . to be _James_. He needed to be the Soldier.

He wondered if he'd feel guilty when the time came.

* * *

Natalia Romanova stood silent next to her competition. It was clear what was about to happen. She'd finally made it. It was time. Her final test. It took all her will not to look at James beyond a brief glance. She'd missed him in the month that he'd been away, despite the distraction of two missions she had been allowed to carry out herself. All successful. All simple.

She was happy he was back.

Karpov began to drone about the glory of Russia and the many ways in which the Black Widow would make their country proud. Natalia tuned him out. She focused on her competition. Tanya Liminova was much like her in the sense that she flew under the radar. She never drew attention to herself to the point that you could stand in the same room as her and forget she was there. She was the opposite of Natalia in every way. Where Natalia was alluring and stunning, Liminova was a sly sort of beautiful that made a man look twice before he decided she was worth his time. Natalia was all fluid grace, still every bit the dancer, while Liminova was all straight lines and harsh angles. As far as Natalia could tell, Liminova's only real advantage was her height—a solid four inches—which translated into a longer reach.

Natalia wasn't worried.

And when Karpov finally stopped waxing poetically about the brilliant red of Russia, Natalia didn't waste time.

Natalia let her mind slip into a place where nothing else existed except her heartbeat and her breaths. The world fell silent. Her mind became clear. It was all about trust. She trusted her muscles to remember and react to every feint and attack Liminova made while she watched and waited for her moment to strike. Sometimes Natalia thought this was the closest she could get to peace.

The fight didn't last long. Hardly more than a minute. Not due a lack of skill but rather because even the best can be a split second too slow, and when Natalia saw her chance, she took it. Liminova's body crumpled to the floor like a forgotten puppet, limbs splayed and neck snapped. There was a second of polite applause, but Natalia didn't hear it. She knew it wasn't over. It couldn't be.

She was right.

"Well done, Romanova, well done, indeed," Karpov crooned like a proud parent. Natalia glanced at the Madame. All the woman did was nod. "And now, for your final test. Personally, I love it when a story ends the way it begins. It's poetic, no?"

As soon as he raised his arm and motioned to someone behind her, Natalia knew exactly what her final test would be.

 _Who_.

"It is time for the student to best her teacher," Karpov said with a smile that made Natalia fight a shiver. There was something in his eyes—a quiet but manic glee that made her stomach churn—as he glanced from her to James, who met her gaze blankly.

And it was like the first time they'd met all over again.

He stared right through her, as if she was invisible, and Natalia was entirely unprepared for how much it hurt.

But she summoned her trademark smirk that all men were hopeless to resist, and stared right back in challenge even as her heart thundered in her chest.

Surely they didn't expect her to kill him?

Karpov spared them both one last glance, eyes gleaming at the prospect of the fight ahead. What he got was something he didn't expect. James and Natalia didn't fight.

They danced.

Only there was no music, just the rush of air as they moved and the soft whistle of the blade James withdrew from his belt. Natalia never faltered once. She knew him so well now, knew his moves, his body, just as well as she knew her own. James was no different. They wove around each other, one violent step after another, neither landing a single hit, and the entire room was entranced with the exception of one.

Karpov watched with a cold smile.

Because only a fool would fail to recognize the intimacy in every move.

It was like watching a romantic moment in a film, the moment when the hero and the heroine dance in a shining ballroom, candlelight in their eyes as they inevitably pause to stare, to drink each other in and marvel at each other. The music crescendos, time slows . . . Karpov felt like a voyeur as he continued to watch Barnes and the little Widow fight like they were making love.

His whole body thrummed with excitement when the little Widow capitalized on the smallest of advantages. Barnes was only the slightest bit off balance. No matter his strength, his sense of equilibrium would always be flawed because of his metal arm, and the little Widow knew it. She knew it, and she used it. _Marvelous_.

He watched her fingers ghost over the metal, and then there was a shower of sparks and the arm suddenly hung limply at Barnes's side. Oh, she wouldn't, would she? Did he want to see what would happen next? Did he? Oh, yes. Yes.

The little Widow stole the knife from Barnes and cut him in a thin slice that was only a hair from taking out his eye. Yes, yes, yes. Would she do it? Would she? Two quick combos that Barnes was too off-balance to effectively counter, and then he was on his back. Oh, she _would_ , wouldn't she? She would do it. She would kill him.

Did he want her to?

The knife rose.

Perhaps he should let it happen.

The blade glinted in the afternoon light as it began to fall.

But then again . . .

"Stop!"

The knife sank into the mat next to James's head, and Natalia kept her fist clinched around the handle in order to keep her hand from shaking. For a split second, she and James were alone, her straddling his chest and their faces hidden by her hair, and she met his eyes with horror and guilt. He stared at her in shock that faded quickly into resignation and a quiet sort of acceptance. He didn't hold it against her. How. How could he not?

But there wasn't time to ask questions. As the room erupted into a loud applause, Natalia schooled her features and rose coldly, leaving James to lie prone on the floor for a second longer before he awkwardly pulled himself up, careful to keep his face blank even as the sensors in his left arm kept sending signals to his brain that something was wrong. It hurt, a strange sort of pain, but one he was familiar with.

He stood straight as he wordlessly walked to Karpov's side.

"Soldat," he said. "You've trained her well."

He nodded. "Too well, it would seem."

Karpov only smiled.

In hindsight, James wished he would have snapped the man's neck then and there.

* * *

There was little celebration. Natalia found herself alone in her room within the hour, and as soon as the door was shut behind her, she let her shoulders fall. Resolutely, she started for the bathroom, wincing as she felt the twinge in her muscles. James had nearly pulled her left arm from its socket, and the joint still felt shifty. Only when she went to grab the hem of her shirt and her fingers flared with pain did she realize that two were dislocated. She fixed them with little fanfare, barely flinching. Eyes resolutely away from the mirror, she finished undressing and then spent the next ten minutes just standing under the spray and letting the heat pound her skin.

She didn't know how she felt. There was a part of her that was undeniably proud. She was the Black Widow. Just like she'd wanted. Just like she'd always known. Now it was just official. She'd won. She'd defied everyone. She'd _survived_.

But she . . . what had she sacrificed to do it?

 _It was raining. She lay in bed on her side watching the raindrops race down the window as her fingers tranced the smooth metal plates of James's arm around her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder, and she sighed, her fingers never stopping their exploration. "Can you feel this?" she asked._

 _He hummed. "In a way."_

" _Is it nice?"_

" _Only because it's you."_

 _Natalia smiled even though he couldn't see her. "Were you always this charming?"_

" _I like to think so."_

" _I bet you were trouble."_

" _I still am."_

 _She laughed. "It doesn't bother me, you know," she said, fingers still ghosting over the metal. "Your arm."_

 _His metal thumb brushed against her waist. It amazed her how gentle he could be when he wanted. "Good to know." She could hear the smirk in his voice._

" _How does it work?"_

" _Sensors."_

" _What if one's damaged?"_

" _Depends which one. I might lose control of a finger," he poked her ribs, "or the whole damn thing."_

He hadn't told her which plate hit the right sensor, but he'd told her the arm could be disabled. He'd been so free and honest with her, and look what she had done with that trust. She'd taken the one part of him that he had no control over and used it against him. Natalia hung her head and shut her eyes tight against the memory of his wide eyes staring up at her. Shock, anxiety, anger, acceptance.

And hurt.

Despite the fact that they both knew it had been unavoidable, the fact that she'd gone after the most vulnerable part of him _hurt_.

He couldn't possibly forgive her.

Eventually, she shut the water off and dressed in loose pants and a thin shirt, letting her hair hang in wet tangles down her back. There was nothing to do but sit cross-legged on her bed and rub her bruised fingers as she cast cautious glances at her window. He wouldn't come. Surely he wouldn't be so stupid . . .

 _Tap. Tap. Tap_.

It was the unmistakable sound of metal on glass. Natalia looked up just as James planted one foot on the floor, and despite her unease, she felt herself begin to smile. She stood without thinking, and her feet moved without her permission. James met her halfway across the room, his hands on her hips as he lifted her up just as she jumped. Her arms were tight around his neck. "You came," she whispered. "I didn't think you would."

James kissed her temple. "I needed to see you."

"I'm sorry, James. I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"You did what you had to do."

"I would have killed you."

"And that's the only option I could have lived with."

Natalia pulled away with a frown. "James."

"It's true." He brushed her cheek. "You're more important than any mission."

She took a sharp step backward. "Don't."

James smiled ruefully, and her eyes narrowed even as her chest swelled with affection. She'd never seen him smile like that before. It made him look ten years younger. "I thought we established that I was compromised a long time ago," he said.

She wanted to choke him. Her heart fluttered. "If they find out, they'll kill you."

He closed the distance between them and raised his hand—the metal one, shiny and good as new—and gently caught her chin so she couldn't look away from him. "Worth it," he said.

"James," she whispered.

"Natalia."

This was the moment. James knew it. He should say it. Three words. Just three little words that Natalia deserved to hear. Oh, he was sure that she knew, whether she admitted it to herself or not, just as he knew that she loved him. But to say it . . . to say it made it real, made them honest, and for all of their growth, for all of their love . . . they were still spies, assassins, liars, and cheats.

They didn't handle truth well.

Three words.

"You and me," he reminded her. "It's just you and me."

Natalia smiled like she knew what he'd meant to say. And she did. She knew why he couldn't manage the words, and she understood. She couldn't say it either. But she could prove she meant it. "James," she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the bed.

He followed with a smile. "Yeah?"

She pushed him lightly onto the bed and straddled his hips. "Lie back," she said with a smile. "And don't move."

James grinned and raised his hands in supplication before locking his fingers cockily behind his hand and lying back. Natalia's answering smile would have made any other man shudder, but James only tensed in anticipation. Natalia let her nails skim over his chest. The bruises from their fight were already fading, the cut on his cheek now a thin pink line. Showing compassion wasn't something that she felt she truly understood, but Natalia began to trail her lips over his skin, pausing at every hurt and scar.

James's arm hummed as he fought to keep still. "Natalia."

She hummed. "James," she teased.

"You don't . . . Can I . . ."

"No," she said with a laugh.

"Natalia," his voice hitched as she gently nipped at his neck.

"And I thought the Soldier could withstand anything."

James squirmed as her lips began to trail toward his belt. "This is torture."

Natalia paused and slowly crawled forward until her face hovered over his. She traced the cut on his cheek. "This is about you," she said. She kissed the wound, and then whispered in his ear. "So be still."

* * *

 **Well, Nat is officially a Widow. I do love how she got there, though. Going after Bucky's arm was the only way I could think of that would show just how uncompromising both of them can be to get what they want. Plus, of the two, Nat is colder. Not her fault, just her age. It's why she's got a soft side in the future. She's retrospective in a way only experience provides.**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**

 **P.S. If you want a teaser quote for next chapter, drop me a line!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes: Hello! Another Friday is upon us, and I have a chapter for you! Only two/three more after this! AND DID EVERYONE SEE THE INFINITY WARS TRAILER FROM COMIC CON? *pterodactyl screeches***

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it. Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 19: Present

 _Steve and I were in the freezer truck because we spent our bus money on hot dogs. Idiots._

 _I took a bullet for Dum Dum. Right in the ass. Bastard just laughed._

 _Zola played opera while he worked. I hate opera._

 _Bridget hid peppermints under her pillow. If I played ponies, she'd give me one._

 _Steve's Mom's name was Sarah. He wore newspapers in his shoes._

 _Mission Report: June 5_ _th_ _, 1951. Target: Dmitri Aksakov. 4 daughters. Shot him through the window at a birthday party. Blood got on the cake._

 _Steve cheats at poker. I just can't prove it._

 _Mission Report: . . ._

"Hey, you."

He sets his pen down as Natasha leans over his chair and wraps her arms around his shoulders. "You're up disgustingly early," she murmurs. "Come back to bed."

It's hardly three in the morning, but his dreams were unusually vivid tonight, and he could only take reliving so many different memories before he had to ground himself in some form of reality. The cabin. Natasha. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand. "I'd just keep you up," he says.

She kisses his neck. "Rough night?"

He sighs and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes as her hands slip toward his chest. He catches one of her hands near his heart. "Rougher than most."

"Bad memories?"

"Mostly good ones, actually."

"Tell me."

"You know that scar on my ass you keep asking about?"

She hums. "Yeah?"

"Took a bullet for Dum Dum. Italy. '44."

"Don't worry. It's still a great ass."

"Thanks," he says dryly.

She laughs lowly in his ear, and he relaxes a bit more. "Come back to bed," she says. "It's too quiet without you snoring."

"I don't snore."

"Oh, I beg to differ, _soldat_."

He lets her drag him back to bed, and says nothing when she snuggles right up to him like he's a body pillow rather than a deadly assassin. He might snore, but she's like a barnacle. He doesn't remember her being so cuddly, but he supposes a lot can change in a few decades. And, truthfully, he doesn't mind. It feels so good to know that someone trusts him.

He buries his face in her hair and inhales. There's a small chance in hell that he'll find sleep again, and he knows that Natasha knows that, too. But there's something so damn novel about sharing a bed with someone, something special about skin on skin and the extra warmth, something so incredibly human, and he and Natalia are addicted to it. They've both been alone for far too long.

And he's missed her.

The longer he's with her, the more he remembers, the more that simple realization sinks in. He's fucking missed her for so damn long. All this time, he'd just been some lost soldier who'd forgotten he'd ever had a home until she gave him one. Now he's home again, and he doesn't want to leave.

 _Just you and me_ , he'd promised, and he hates knowing that he'll have to break it. The real world will come calling sooner rather than later, whether he and Natasha are ready or not.

Turns out, it's not the real world that calls.

It's Steve.

* * *

Natasha sits on the couch, curled under his arm like a cat while they watch _P.S. I Love You_. She holds a bowl of popcorn in her lap that she's drowned in white cheddar and munches quietly as she watches Jerry and Holly meet for the first time. She glances up at James, who's watching with a look on his face that makes her think he's enduring this only because she's asked him, and smiles. "What? I think it's cute," she said.

"You like these movies?"

"They're rom-coms. And yes, but you can't tell anyone. It's my one guilty pleasure."

"You think this is romantic? He's haunting the woman he loves. She's waiting around for a ghost."

Natasha smiles a little. "I found a ghost, once."

James huffed. "Not the same thing." She hums like she doesn't believe him, and he rolls his eyes. "It's not—"

He's interrupted when Natasha's phone buzzes from the coffee table. She leans forward to check the number, praying that it's one of Clint's burners. One look at the number and her hopes fall. She glances at James, and there's a wary set to his shoulders that lets her know that he realizes exactly who's calling. She sighs and answers with a flawless smile.

"Rogers, it's not nice to go so long without calling a girl."

Steve laughs. "No, it's not," he agrees. "I'll take you out to lunch and make it up to you. We can go to that deli on 41st that you like."

"New York?"

"Yeah." Steve pauses for a moment, sighing. "I hope you've figured out your cover," he says, "because I need you here."

"What's happened?"

"I didn't find Bucky. The file you gave was a big help, but every lead wasn't just cold, it was dead," he says sadly.

Natasha stares across the couch at James who looks ready to bolt. She pleads with her eyes for him to stay. He looks down. "Steve, I know how much Bucky means to you," she says as she places her hand on James's thigh. "Believe me, I really do, but maybe you're not meant to find him. Maybe he'll find you."

"I just want to help him."

"I know," she says softly, brows furrowing in worry when James turns his head and stares at the wall. "So, what's the plan, Cap?"

"I may not have found Bucky, but I did find HYDRA. A lot of them. They've got active bases all over, Nat. We've gotta shut 'em down."

"There's something else, isn't here?"

"Loki's scepter is missing."

"Shit."

"Something like that, yeah. Listen, Tony's offering up the Tower as an HQ. He's trying to get a hold of Banner, and as far as we know, Thor is still Earthbound after what happened in Greenwich."

"What happened in Greenwich?"

He laughs. "You're really off the grid, aren't you?"

"I've been distracted."

"I didn't know you could be distracted."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to keep."

James finally takes her hand. Her smile is brittle.

"How long do you need to get to New York?"

Natasha closes her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. "A few weeks," she says. "I need to be sure I don't have any tails."

"Thanks, Nat. Stay safe."

"You too."

She hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch before turning her face into James's chest. "Just you and me, right?" she asks.

"You and me," he repeats.

He kisses the top of her head, and she closes her eyes against the lie.

"You didn't tell him," James says after moment.

"I didn't think it was my place. Did you want me to tell him?"

"No."

She waits while he sorts his thoughts, squeezing his hand. "I'm not Bucky," he says eventually. "Not . . . not the one he's looking for, at least."

"Maybe you should let him be the judge of that."

"I'm not ready, Natalia."

"That's fine."

"I don't want you to lie for me."

"Good thing I didn't lie, then."

He gives her a look then, challenging and nonplussed, but she ignores it and smiles a little. "Now then," she says, turning back to the movie. "This next part is really fun. We should karaoke before . . ." she trails off with a shake of her head, and James's chest tightens. ". . . it'd be fun. I think you'd like it."

* * *

"What the hell is that?"

James stares dumbly at the dirty lump of fur in Natasha's arms as she waltzes past him, still sweaty and flushed from her morning run. "I think it's a dog," she says as she sets the little beast in the sink. "We'll find out."

"What's it doing here?"

"He followed me for four miles, James."

"So?"

She smirks at him over her shoulder. "A girl likes to be chased."

He scoffs. "C'mon, Tasha," he says, and she looks down to hide the silly smile on her face. "What the hell are we going to do with it?"

"Well, I thought we could start by giving it a bath."

"What about food? It's an unnecessary waste of rations."

She snickers. "Rations?"

"Nat—"

"I think I'll name him Yasha."

"You're not naming that thing after me."

"His name is Yasha."

"No."

"Yasha."

He huffs and glares at the little mutt. He can just barely make out its eyes under all the fur, but then the little fucker's tongue lolls out, smug as he can be as Natasha begins to suds him up. "Fine," he mutters. "But I'm not calling him Yasha."

The mutt follows him around like a goddamn shadow.

He hasn't figured out just what kind of mix he is, though it has to be some sort of sheepdog with all the fucking hair that's now covering every single surface of the cabin. Natasha seems to find it cute. He finds it annoying. And itchy.

But the mutt makes Natasha smile, and damn it if he's going to do something to fuck that up.

Even if it means having a furry shadow nipping at his heels for attention.

James remembers having a dog. It had been a little beagle named Patches, and he remembers the dog trailing after him just like the mutt. But Patches hadn't chewed up his boots or pissed on his shirt and then grinned up at him like he thought he was a cute little shit.

James puts up with the mutt until one night when he snaps awake from a nightmare. Memory. Natasha shifts beside him but doesn't wake entirely, too used this routine to react fully, and he soothes her back to sleep with a few hushed words in Russian. The mutt, however, is not so easily soothed.

Natasha had wanted him on the bed, but he'd put his foot down, and so the mutt sleeps on the floor at the foot of the bed. James nearly steps on the hairball and curses under his breath as the mutt keeps weaving between his legs, jumping up on its paws occasionally like it's trying to take out his legs and send him to the floor. Well, buddy, try harder.

He could punt the little fucker forty yards.

Bring it.

He pours a glass of Scotch knowing it won't help but hoping he may be able to trick himself into thinking that it will. He has notebooks scattered across the cabin, and he takes the one next to the coffeemaker and sits heavily at the kitchen table. He writes for hours. He writes about the three people he now remembers killing. A family. Small but loving. He can see that now. He hadn't then.

He writes about killing the father first. His true target. He writes about putting a bullet in the man's skull while his wife screamed. He writes about how the boy—maybe sixteen—had charged at him with a damn butter knife. He'd caught the kid by the chin with his arm. One flick of his wrist and the kid was on the floor. He remembers how the mother hadn't stopped screaming until he'd snapped her neck, too.

He doesn't remember the boy's name. He doesn't remember because he'd never known it. He vows to find out.

And for Christ's sake, what the fuck keeps scratching at his leg?

He looks down and finds the mutt staring up looking impatient and annoyed. "Fuck off," he mutters, lightly shoving the dog away with his foot.

The mutt comes right back.

"Goddammit, go away."

The mutt stares at him.

"Go bother Tasha."

It's ears perk up.

"No, not Yasha, _Tasha_."

But he's sealed his fate. The mutt reacts to his name and takes it as an invitation to leap into James's lap, only to slide right off and tumble to the floor when James stands with an annoyed huff. The mutt follows him to the couch. "For Christ's sake, leave me alone."

He lays against the cushions with a heavy sigh, shifting his weight to get somewhat comfortable. How he'd managed two months sleeping on this thing amazes him, and he nearly gives up and returns to bed with Natasha, but he knows that he'll toss and turn the rest of the night. The cabin won't survive two grumpy, sleep-deprived assassins.

He thinks he's finally managed a comfortable position, and of course that's when his mind decides to replay his latest sin on a loop. He can't get over the expression on the boy's face—terrified and angry and desperate. He can't forget the sound of his neck snapping or the mother's screams. It all echoes loudly in his head until his breathing is getting shorter and his skin grows hot.

Natasha. He should have gone back to bed. She always calms him when he gets like this. Anxiety attacks. That's what she calls them.

They're a goddamn annoyance is what they are, and fuck, he needs her.

Then there are four paws on his chest, and a little whimper in his ear as the mutt nestles its head in his neck. James focuses on the dog like he would Natasha. He strokes the dog's back like he would Natasha's hair and slowly takes deep breaths. He focuses on the warmth sitting on his chest and even the wet tongue that starts licking his face.

When he opens his eyes and looks down, the mutt is staring up at him, and James swears the little white fur ball looks worried.

"What are you looking at?" he mumbles before letting his head thump against the arm of the couch. The mutt doesn't move except to lower its head onto its paws and huff. James's grudgingly scratches its head. "Just once," he says. "Don't get used to it."

He wakes to find Natasha staring down at him with the smuggest smirk.

"Don't say it," he threatens, but she just chuckles and walks away muttering under her breath something about _her stubborn boys_.

She doesn't know why she's making things harder for herself. It's just going to make their inevitable separation that much more painful. But no, she had to bring home a damn dog and name it Yasha and then watch her _soldat_ try his damnedest to hate the furry beast. She'd known he'd cave. James is one of the gentlest people she's ever known.

She knows what she's doing. Ever since those damning words _you and me_ had passed between them, things had changed. Something in her shifted. She thinks she's the best person she's ever been. She feels more herself, or who she thinks she can be, and while it's completely terrifying, it's so incredibly liberating. She feels open. New. Softer.

And it's nice. It's human.

It's love.

She's so in love with James Buchanan Barnes that it's ridiculous.

And she knows that he's going to leave.

He's growing stir crazy, and to be honest, so is she. His runs become longer and longer. Their trips into town turn into weekends away. But it's not enough. She craves the excitement of a mission. She misses Steve and Clint. Hell, she even misses Tony.

And she knows that James feels the need to move on. Despite all his progress, despite all that's blossomed between them, he still feels as if he's on the run. And rightly so. Decades of training were telling him months ago that he'd been in one place for far too long. She knows it, and he knows it.

And yet she brought home a dog.

She's trying to build something that isn't ready to be built. She knows that, but she can't seem to stop, and James doesn't seem ready to stop either. They both seem content ignoring reality.

Of course, that's when reality comes calling again.

She wakes up to James calling her name.

"James?"

He turns sharply away from her, his metal arm whirring before slamming into the nightstand. The ensuing crash doesn't wake him, but seems to fuel his anger. Natasha knows she's an idiot when she stays next to him on the bed, placing her hands on his shoulders to try to keep him in one place. His grip on her wrist nearly crushes bone, and then she's suddenly on her back and he's hovering over her, eyes wide but sightless.

Still asleep.

"James," she holds his face with her free hand. "James, wake up!"

He growls and starts to curse her, promising awful, awful things, and she quickly realizes just what he's remembering. "I'm fine, _soldat_ ," she promises. "I'm fine. Wake up and see for yourself. I'm fine. James!"

 _James_.

His eyes close and he shakes his head. She holds his face in her hands. "James, wake up. It's over. It was a long time ago."

 _James_.

"Wake up."

His eyes snap open, and when the first thing he sees is red, he nearly reaches for the Ka-bar under his pillow before he's trapped by a familiar green gaze. Wide and worried and teary. "James, it's me," Natasha says. Her hands stroke his cheeks. "It's me."

He doesn't know when he sat up or how she came to be straddling his lap. His hands tighten on her hips as he closes his eyes against the sound of her screams echoing in his mind. "James," she repeats. "Look at me, _soldat_."

He flinches.

"James."

"Just stop," he whispers as he stares at the wall over her shoulder. "Just . . . don't."

He can feel her study him before she says, "You remember."

His eyes close. "I can't stop hearing you scream."

"Hey, look at me. James, fucking look at me." He looks, and her eyes are blazing a familiar fire and he loves it. Loves her. God, he loves her so damn much. "It's not your fault," she declares. "Alright? It is not your fault."

His eyes well with tears. "I'm sorry, Natalia. I never wanted to get you into trouble."

The smile she gives him is so soft and yet he feels it like a punch in the gut. "I remember everything," she says. "And you were the one good thing."

He leans his forehead against hers. "You and me," he breathes.

"Always."

He makes love to her the rest of the night.

Neither of them admit that it's goodbye.

* * *

 **Well, yeah. We had to get here. Sorry.**

 **The next three chapters wrap up the story. We'll see just how Bucky and Nat are found out by the Red Room, get a glimpse of what happened in Budapest, tease how Nat joined SHIELD, and finally end things in preparation for Civil War. I'm debating a sequel, so please drop a line if you have an idea of what you'd like to see! ;)**

 **Next time in _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . "James, you're being reckless. Anyone could see." - Nat**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Notes: Here we are, the chapter we've all been waiting for, and the end for our Soldat and Black Widow. I had a lot of ideas for this chapter, most of which didn't make it in the final cut. There were so many questions. How do you subdue the two greatest assassins in the world? The answer? You don't. You make them surrender.**

 **I really hate Karpov for that. He's an evil bastard.**

 **All that being said, this is truly one of my favorite chapters in the story. It says a lot about how far Nat and James have come. Imagining these two with the two we see in the early chapters is so satisfying for me. My babies have come so far.**

 ***sigh***

 **Time to ruin it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It's not mine. Stop making me say it.**

* * *

Chapter 20: Past

It was hardly their first mission now that Natasha was officially Black Widow, but she still fought not to grin as she walked out of the Red Room of her own free will to find James waiting for her on the curb, leaning against a slick motorcycle that she couldn't wait to straddle. "You know, one of these days, I'm going to drive," she asked as she approached.

James's lips twitched. "If you ask nicely."

She batted her eyelashes. "This is me being nice."

"You can do better than that."

"Careful, _soldat_. I might take you up on that."

James's eyes fluttered shut against his will as she caressed the two simple syllables. Damn her. He loved her so damn much.

But she would be the death of him.

"Get on the bike, _malen'kiy pauk._ "

Natalia smirked but climbed onto the bike behind him, letting her hands slide purposefully around his waist and laughing lowly when he cursed her under his breath. She waited until they were out of sight of the compound before she molded herself to his back and let her hands drift up to his chest. She felt certain that he would still be able to hear her despite the air whipping around them and the traffic of downtown Moscow, but she chose to keep her dirty thoughts to herself.

For now.

They were supposed to stay overnight at a hotel. She'd wait until she had him trapped with nowhere to go but a bed. And even that was optional, when she thought about it.

They arrived at what was supposed to be a not-so-abandoned warehouse that was a front for a wayward operative who had decided to run HYDRA weapons for his own benefit. And well, that just wouldn't do. William MacDuff needed to be made an example of—though honestly, Natalia wondered just what HYDRA thought of trusting an American not to turn.

James parked the bike in the alley a block over, and as soon as she was off the bike, he had her pressed against the rough brick wall, his knee between her legs and his hands on her hips. Natalia laughed under his assault before she moaned as he slipped his tongue in her mouth. They hadn't seen each other in weeks. Natalia had gone on assignment as soon as she'd been made Widow, and James had been sent off hours before she was due to return. She had come back hoping he could wash off the scent of the fat millionaire she'd seduced for five pages of bank account numbers, while he'd hoped to remind himself that he could be _warm_. It was so easy for him to slip into the cold abyss of the Soldier. Sometimes he thought he'd be lost without Natalia to remind him that he had a home.

But she was here now, pressed so tight against him, lips moving hotly against his, and he was _warm_. He was home.

"I missed you," he murmured when he finally pulled away, their breaths heavy between them.

"James, you're being reckless," she said, even as she smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. "Anyone could see."

"What do they know? We're just two people who are crazy for each other," he dove in to suckle her neck, and she sighed.

"We have a mission," she reminded him.

He hummed against her skin. "I'm aware."

"James."

"Natalia."

Natalia summoned her all the fortitude she possessed and gently pushed him away. "Work first," she said. "Play later."

James's eyes gleamed like a little boy, letting her have another glimpse of that other man she knew was somewhere inside him. The one with the Brooklyn accent and broad grins who sang off-key when he was trying to be romantic. She saw more and more of that man lately. "Hmm," he let his eyes trail over her, "what kind of games will we play?"

"Tell you what, I'll let you pick the first one."

James eyes closed and he smiled as he shook his head. "You're killing me, Nat," he said. He did that sometimes now. Called her "Nat." She liked it. "But, as you said," he glanced at the end of the alley. "We've got work to do."

"Think of it this way," she said as she started down the alley. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner you have me."

James nearly took her hand and started running, but he refrained. He wasn't sure exactly what had come over him. There were some days when he thought he'd never be able to shake the mindset of the Soldier, and then there were moments like now when he felt like an entirely different man. Younger, funnier, lighter. It was strange. A little disconcerting. But it was almost like a sugar high. It was fun. He felt, in an odd way, like he was finally himself.

Yet by the time he and Natalia reached the end of the alley, that man was gone—safely tucked away in the back of his mind—and James was back. Or the Soldier. Sometimes it was hard to tell. Both men trusted the woman next to him, so he supposed it really didn't matter.

"I'll take care of the perimeter," he said. "You get us in."

Natalia smirked. "I'll try not to have too much fun without you."

James wished later—oh, so much later—that he'd kept kissing her in that alley.

Four guards patrolled the perimeter, and Natalia slipped past them like a ghost had once taught her. Getting through the door took her roughly a minute, and most of that was spent overriding the fingerprint scanner, which she improvised with some powder and a piece of tape. She felt James next to her as she turned the handle, and then she threw the door open and James charged through. There were a dozen or so men who shouted in surprise. Two had bullets in their brain by the time Natalia could blink, and she ran toward the man closest to her, dropping to her knees at the last moment to dodge his swinging fist. Then she was on her feet behind him. A kick to the back of the knee, then her hands grasped his head. One twist. One more man down.

She grabbed his gun from the table and fired two quick shots. They landed in the chest of a man aiming at James from across the warehouse. The whole ordeal was painfully easy and over in minutes. James looked over at her, his eyes hard and cold and familiar. She gave him one sharp nod, and then their eyes drifted to the upper floor and the closed office door.

James led the way, pistol steady in his hands. Something was off. Something wasn't right. The firefight below was too easy. This whole op, now that he was truly thinking of the mission and not Natalia, smelled funny. What had transpired downstairs could've been dealt with by either of them without much issue. Hell, it still wasn't anything that any other operative couldn't do. Not one aspect of this operation screamed Winter Soldier or Black Widow.

But his feet continued to move forward, as if driven by some innate order to complete the mission, no matter the cost. He felt and heard Natalia behind him, following so closely behind, so trusting still. He wanted to turn and tell her to go, to run, as they continued to climb the stairs and his gut steadily continued to drop. But he said nothing, and when it came time to break through door, he didn't spare her glance.

He wished he had.

Because it was all a goddamn trap.

It was dark in the room, but that wasn't what dropped him to his knees. It was the two cattle prods buzzing with enough electricity to take down a horse. But his Natalia, his little spider, was not so easily felled. She leapt over him like the brilliant dancer she would always be at heart and opened fire. He couldn't see anything but the flickers from muzzle flashes as she emptied her clip into the men in the room, sparing a bullet for no one.

It wasn't enough.

There had to be thirty people in the office, all of them armed to the teeth, and yet none were firing back, at least to kill. So they were needed alive.

James was still being pumped with electricity, and it had him twitching and scrambling more than he thought it should, and so with a roar he lunged for the legs of one of the bastards, forcing him to the floor and in seconds, his knife slipped between his ribs. The other bastard got the same knife right under his chin. James let him keep it.

It was a bloodbath in the room. Complete chaos. A quarter of the men likely went down just from stray bullets, another quarter met their end once James got his hands on a gun. It was close quarter combat with one goal: subdue then fire. His tacsuit was slowly soaking up the blood until the material clung to his skin. None of it mattered. He threw a man across the room with his metal arm that had his gun pointed at Natalia's knee.

They fought together with ease even in the cramped space, and in her mind, though it was racing with repercussions and what this ambush meant, Natalia found herself back in the Red Room, back in the training room, dancing with James like she had so many times before. It didn't take long before the only people breathing in the room were herself and James, and they both stood silently for a moment, each catching their breath, before Natalia swallowed and said, "They know."

James gritted his teeth. "Go out the back. I'll meet you there."

"No."

"Natalia."

"I'm not leaving you, James," she snapped, sending him a scathing glare. "We're in this together," she said, her voice softening. "You and me."

He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tell her to run, to get as far away as she could, to leave Russia behind, to defect, to be _safe_ . . . but he only swallowed and nodded. "You and me," he repeated.

He held out his hand.

Natalia took it.

They didn't make it two steps outside the warehouse. Natalia could only marvel at the picture they must have made. The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, blood-soaked hands clutched together, staring down a small army. Forty soldiers in all, two trucks with high beams tracking them like spotlights, bringing everything into sharp, bright focus. Karpov stood in the thick of it all, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he was prepared to scold them for being out past curfew.

"You know, Sergeant, when I told you months ago that you could have fun with one of the widows, I never actually expected you to do it," Karpov said with false humor.

 _Sergeant_.

James tried to hide the curiosity in his eyes, but Karpov must have seen something flicker. Or perhaps he merely wanted to brag. "Ah, I thought you had begun to remember," he said. "You see, Soldat, your real name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. A National War Hero. A good man." Karpov smiled coldly. "And I made you my puppet."

James thoughtlessly took a step forward in rage, but Natalia's hand pulled him back, along with the sound of forty rifles being raised. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Sergeant Barnes," Karpov said as he slowly stalked forward. "You see, they're not aiming for you. You're too valuable an asset. But your little whore there, well . . . there will always be another Black Widow."

Natalia surprised the General by smiling dangerously. "I wouldn't count on it."

Karpov chuckled indulgently, but Natalia's hard gaze never faltered. The sound slowly died in his throat, which he cleared with fake arrogance and said, "She has quite the mouth, doesn't she, Sergeant?" He looked at James. "Now, I do believe you've killed enough of my men. Perhaps you could make this next bit simpler, no? Stand down."

James didn't move.

". . . or your plaything dies."

Natalia knew what James would do. _You're more important than any mission,_ he'd told her. He was an idiot. Such a goddamn stubborn idiot.

She loved him so much in that moment that she thought she may just hate him.

James turned to look at her, smiling sadly at the fire blazing in her eyes. "You know I can't," he said.

Her lips trembled. "I know."

There was a whistle in the air, and then her world went dark.

He should have fought harder.

His every step and breath was painful, but he should have fought harder. He knew what was going to happen to him. He'd made his peace with it, but the reason he was pacing his cage like an animal was because he didn't know what would happen to Natalia. They wouldn't kill her. Karpov had to be bluffing. Natalia was the best Widow to ever come through the program. She'd be punished. He knew that. But it might all be worth it as long as she lived.

God, it was all his fault.

He didn't remember what happened after they subdued him. He remembered catching Natalia as she crumbled, a sedative dart in her neck. He remembered lunging for Karpov only to blackout at the sound of a single word he couldn't remember. He thought he might remember seeing a glimpse of Natalia's red hair disappearing around the corner, but he wasn't sure. He only knew that Karpov _knew_. Maybe he'd always known.

James's fists clenched.

He'd paced across his containment cell twenty-seven times when he heard her. She hadn't spoken, hadn't said a word, but he knew she was there. Just on the other side of the door. He knew those steps, knew those breaths. He swore he could hear her heartbeat. And it was beating fast. She was scared.

Then the machines began to whir.

 _No_.

He lashed out with a roar. His metal fist dented the door. His second punch made the whole thing shudder in its frame. The third made the metal pucker. He could hear the soldiers gathering in front of the door. He heard their weapons being loaded and cocked. He didn't care. He'd kill them all.

Yet all his rage was extinguished with one word.

"James!"

No. Goddammit, no.

"Natalia!"

When the screaming started, he slammed his hands over his ears, but it didn't help. His knees gave out and he shook his head in denial as her screams sank into his bones. Tears welled in his eyes but for some reason none fell until the screams finally stop and the machines go quiet.

By the time the door opened, he was ready.

Two were dead before they could blink.

Another two were dead before the first bodies even hit the floor.

One fired a volley that he deflected with his arm. Three stray bullets found new homes in a torso, a skull, and a leg.

He fought until he couldn't fight anymore. His right leg bled heavily from two bullets. His side ached from a stray knife. His whole left side was still numb from a cattle prod. When they dragged him to the chair, he didn't struggle. He stared out at the basement littered with bodies and thought that it still wasn't enough.

"I never wanted this to happen," Karpov said as he came forward, his red book in his hands. "You were not programmed to feel such . . . emotion."

James glared at him. "Guess you're not as smart as you think you are."

Karpov smiled before gesturing to the machines above James's head. "Do you know what this does, Sergeant? Do you remember?"

"No," he said. "But I've got this funny little feeling that that's the idea."

"Very good. You see, it's interesting. Dr. Erkstine, the man responsible, in part, for the serum in your veins, always had this idea that it didn't just enhance things like your strength and your speed. No, it enhanced everything. Even this." He put his hand over James's heart. "A good man, he said, would become a great man," he quoted. "And I suppose I believe him, now. Because no matter how bad a man I make you, we somehow always end up here."

James glared. "What did you do to Natalia?"

"Ah, your lover," he sighed. "She will not be punished further," he said, as if to be reassuring. "The memory wipe was successful. Her graduation ceremony will be in the next two weeks. Congratulations, Sergeant. Your little ballerina remains a Black Widow."

 _Graduation_.

"You sick fuck."

Karpov tutted. "I've let you have too much, ah, what is the American phrase? Leash? Yes, I've let you have too much freedom. But fear not, I learn from my mistakes," he said, holding up his book. "Now, listen carefully, Soldat . . ."

The straps around his body tightened, and James could only stare up at the metal descending slowly toward his face. He struggled, but it was pointless. The restraints were made for him. There was no escape. He could hear Karpov speaking, but the words didn't make sense. They were just random words.

" _Longing_."

Natalia.

" _Rusted."_

Red.

" _Seventeen_."

The machines began to charge.

" _Daybreak_."

No, no, no. He'd remember. He'd _remember_.

" _Furnace_."

" _Nine_."

" _Benign_."

" _Homecoming_."

Home. He'd finally found a home.

" _One_."

And he supposed he'd been right, in the end.

" _Freight car."_

Natalia would be the death of him.

* * *

 **Well, there we are. Ever since Civil War when we learned about his trigger words, I wondered if it had always been a thing (since we didn't see it in Winter Soldier) or if something had happened that made it a requirement. Something big enough that zapping his brain wasn't enough to make him compliant. So I thought it would be interesting if the trigger words came about because of his relationship with Nat that ultimately proved to Karpov that he didn't have nearly as much control over Bucky as he may have thought.**

 **Next chapter we get Clint!**

 **Next time in _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . "Just call me Uncle Clint." - Clint**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! We're back with another chapter. Time to set up AOU and CW with these last few chapters. Don't worry, still plenty of Bucky and Nat to go around. :)**

 **And thank you, once again, to everyone who reviews and favorites and alerts this story. You're all the best readers a girl could ask for.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

* * *

Chapter 21: Present

She wakes up alone.

She hates how much it hurts.

Yasha is curled into her chest like he knows. He must. He's never dared to be on the bed with James in the cabin. She curls her fingers into his fur and closes her eyes.

Damn him.

She lays in bed for another ten minutes before resolutely getting up and going about her day as if nothing is different. She makes her pot of coffee, grabs two mugs, and sits on the couch, casually sipping from her mug while James's is left unfilled on the table. By the time she's drunk the whole pot, she's booked a flight on one of Stark's jets thanks to Pepper. Within the next hour, there's no trace of either her or James's presence in the cabin with the exception of the piece of paper she's left sitting innocently on the kitchen table.

With her bags in her hand and Yasha at her feet, she picks up the note, folds it without reading it, and stuffs it into her pocket. "C'mon, boy," she says before walking out of the cabin without a backward glance.

The jet is ready and waiting when she arrives at the airport, and she's once again thankful for the sheer convenience of money. They take off within ten minutes of her arrival and don't stop again until Saint Louis, where they pick up Clint, who's grumbling and cursing in a new black leather jacket. "Nat," he says as he collapses into the seat next to her. "Long time no see."

"Clint. You're looking . . . tired."

"Yeah, that's 'cause I fucking am." He sighed as he let his head thump against the headrest. "Ava has the flu, and I don't want Laura near her— _understandably_ _so_ ," he added forcefully, as if he'd had this argument numerous times, "but that just made both my girls miserable, and so I was miserable, and"—he sneezed—"shit."

Natasha felt all the tension she'd been carrying that morning vanish. She laughed. "Sorry to hear that," she said.

"Yeah, well, life with kids," he shrugged. "It happens. Hey, puppy. C'mere boy." He chuckled as Yasha came trotting forward out of the Captain's Cabin. "Hey," he cooed as he petted the dog. "What the hell did you drag in, Nat?"

 _What the hell is that?_

She ignored James's voice. "It's a dog, Clint."

"You should bring him out to the farm," he said. "The kids will love him."

"It crossed my mind, though I'm not sure whether Coop would let me take him back."

Clint laughed. "What's his name?"

"Yasha."

"Yasha? C'mon. Try for something original."

"Like what?"

"Like Lucky."

"Yes, because that's not cliché at all."

"It's the perfect dog name!"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "His name is Yasha."

"Well, suppose it's not so bad," he said as he leaned back in his seat and buckled himself in as the seatbelt light came on and the pilot announced that they were ready for take-off. He turned to her. "You think I could train it to get beer out of the fridge?"

"Clint, no."

"What? It'd be cool. I saw it on YouTube."

"No."

"But . . ."

"No."

* * *

Clint estimates that he has roughly three and a half hours to figure out just where Natasha has been the past six months and with whom. He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he looks at the large plasma he has showing the Mets/Cardinals game. His eyes linger on her neck, pale and flawless, and pictures the necklace of bruises she'd worn just two months ago when he'd called to tell her about the baby.

See, Clint has a problem with those bruises. And it's not out of some overprotective partner bullshit. Nat would eat him alive if he ever tried something that stupid. But those bruises . . . Nat never lets anyone get that close. Ever. And so for someone to get that close, it must be because she let them.

So Clint can only assume that for some reason, the bastard—sorry, sorry, _culprit_ —is still alive.

"Natasha," he says.

She looks up from her book with a small smile. "I'd wondered how long it would take you."

"Where you been, Nat?"

"Minnesota. I had a cabin there."

"Sounds peaceful."

"It was."

Clint nodded. "Who'd you bring with you?"

Natasha turned a page in her book. "Someone who needed my help."

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing when you don't want to tell me the truth, but you don't want to lie."

"Then maybe you should leave it alone."

Clint nods. "Alright," he says. "So, I'm assuming you don't want anyone else to know about your guest?" He watches her carefully as he asks, and it's only because he knows her so well that he sees the briefest flash of guilt in her eyes despite the way she calmly holds his gaze.

"I'd appreciate it," she says.

He nods again and focuses his attention whole-heartedly on the game.

Natasha glances at him over the top of her book, eyes calculating. She hates it when he does this. It's a cheap, basic interrogation technique that she somehow inevitably falls for every single damn time. She focuses on her book even though the words blur together. She blinks and takes a deep breath to clear the sudden ache in her chest. The note in her pocket feels hot.

She holds out for another two hours until she's randomly turned fifty or so pages, and the Mets are trying to rally in the top of the 9th. Clint is cheering loudly with a beer in hand, stuffing chips into his mouth at an alarming rate with the other, while she swallows back the words that have been steadily building up since he stepped onto the plane.

She cracks once the Mets win with a 2-run shot into the left field gap.

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asks, drawing his attention. She's never asked for an explanation from him, always scared of the answer, whatever it could be. "You had your orders. Why break them?"

Clint stares at her for a second before shrugging lightly. "I don't know," he says. "It just . . . didn't feel right."

"Clint."

"I don't know, Nat," he says with a frown. "I just . . . you were about to die, and I looked into your eyes, and it didn't look like you cared. Like you were just tired of it all. Nothing was new or interesting. You'd seen it all before. The only thing you didn't know was what it would be like to die. And I'd been there, and someone," he smiled a little, "Laura, she thought I just needed a chance to start over. It seems kinda obvious, you know, but people like us, we're so trained to see everything that we miss what's right in front of our face. Sometimes, I guess, you just need someone to believe in you."

It takes effort, but Natasha manages a weak smile. Not because she doesn't _want_ to smile. She wants to beam at him, to thank him profusely for seeing something redeemable in her when she needed it most. And it's because she's so overwhelmed that she can barely work up a twitch of her lips. Much more and she'd cry, and that's simply not an option. "Well, thanks, Birdbrain," she says.

He smirks. "You're welcome, Legs."

"Must have been hard, though," she says after a moment. "I wasn't the easiest to work with."

"Yeah, you know how much money I wasted on your coffee?"

She chuckles. "You need to let that go."

"It was perfectly good coffee, Nat."

"I know that."

"It's a crime." He laughs anyway before sobering. "Nat," he says, his voice soft and coaxing. It's the same voice he uses when Ava is stubbornly fighting not to fall asleep. "Where's this coming from?"

Natasha measures her words carefully. "I just . . . I know how hard it must have been, believing in someone when they don't believe in themselves. And then, eventually, you have to let them go because they need you to."

Clint's mind slowly puts the pieces together. He's not sure he's right (but he thinks he is), and if he is . . . shit.

But suddenly a lot of things make sense. Not just recently, when she and the Winter Soldier dropped off the face of the earth at the same time. Even the bruises are secondary. No, Clint suddenly thinks back to the early days of their partnership, not too long after Odessa, when he and Natasha were running a long surveillance op in Kiev, crammed together in a tiny ass apartment with one bed. The first night there, he remembers shaking Natasha awake from a nightmare.

And he remembers now, with stunning clarity, how she'd called him _James_.

He'd asked her about it the next morning, but she hadn't remembered a thing.

 _Who the hell is James?_

Shit.

"They always manage to find their way back," he says eventually, and his heart breaks a little at the hope Natasha tries to hide.

"You think so?"

"Well, you always came back."

She smirks. "I did, didn't I?"

The rest of the flight passes in companionable silence, and once they're at LaGuardia, a black town car is waiting. Natasha smirks at Happy as he holds open the door. "How's that left hook, Hap?" she teases.

"If you're not scared about hurting that pretty face, I'll show you," he retorts, and she laughs.

Clint shakes his head before snapping his fingers at Yasha. "C'mon, in you go."

The dog hops in after Natasha, and Happy narrows his eyes. "I wasn't aware you had a dog," he says.

"I don't," he said with a close-lipped smile. "Just call me Uncle Clint."

He ignored the exasperated Russian curse from inside the car.

* * *

"I've got a no pets policy."

"No, you don't."

"It probably has fleas. Who knows where it's been."

"With me."

"Exactly. Jarvis, run a scan on the mutt."

" _The animal is in perfect health, sir. I detect no fleas."_

Tony huffs and stares at Yasha. Yasha stares back.

"What the hell is it? My Westminster Kennel Club is a pooch short."

" _I do believe Yasha is a mixture of an English Sheepdog and your average Labrador Retriever, sir."_

"Sheep Retriever, then." Tony declares. "I like it. Patent it." He points at Natasha. "He shits on my carpet, it's on you."

"He won't be a problem," she says with a smirk as she looks down at Yasha. "C'mon, _moy malen'kiy soldat."_

As they walk down the hall, she hears Tony call after them. "That better not be some weird Russian spy dog you're training."

She smiles. "Then I wouldn't tell you, would I?"

Her room—well, floor—at the Tower is new. There's a lingering air of fresh paint and expensive fabric spray that tickles her nose, and so the first thing she does is open a window. She examines her new surroundings critically, noting with a small smile the hidey-holes she finds for various weapons. A holster under the coffee table. A sleeve for a Ka-bar sewn into both pillows. She actually laughs when she finds a grenade launcher strapped to the box springs under the bed.

For all his bluster and self-absorption, Tony Stark pays attention.

Her floor is located in the middle of everyone. Steve is right above her, Clint right below her. She's sandwiched between two of the people she trusts most, and after spending the past six months in a cozy cabin with James, the thought is more comforting than she expects. When a dog bed is delivered within the hour, she outright laughs.

It takes her little time to unpack. Half of her closet is already stocked with clothes that are stylish, yet practical, and there's a line of shoes from combat boots to stilettos. The bathroom is just as elaborately prepared, the shower filled with expensive, sweet-smelling shampoos and soaps. Natasha catalogues it all and makes a mental note to thank Pepper.

There's only one thing left to unpack. It's very simple to look at but pretty. Cherry wood, small, and elegant. She gently pops the gold latch and lifts the lid. A smile that is both sad and fond lifts her lips as soft music begins to play and the little ballerina inside begins to twirl. Gently, she flicks the felt lining to reveal a small compartment. It's not big enough to hold much, but she has very few treasures. A picture of her parents, a diamond engagement ring, her arrow necklace, and the hollow point bullet from Odessa.

She takes a deep breath and takes the note out of her pocket. Part of her wants to place it in the box without reading it, but that seems ridiculous. Besides, James has never written her a letter before, and for a moment she truly feels her age as she lets her fingertips ghost over the paper. She unfolds it with a begrudging smile. Still so old-fashioned, her _soldat_.

 _Natalia,_

 _I know I picked a hell of a time to leave. I'm sorry about that, but we both know that if I don't leave now, I won't leave at all, and we're not ready for that. The world needs you more than I do, Tasha. That's okay. You made me remember what it's like to be human. Again._

 _So go save the world, sweetheart. You already saved me._

 _And remember, no matter where you are, it'll always be just you and me._

 _-James_

"You and me," she vows softly before shutting the compartment and placing the music box in the top drawer of her dresser.

There's a knock on the door. Yasha barks and charges toward the sound, tail wagging, and she rolls her eyes. "Calm down, _malen'kiy soldat."_

She's not surprised when she opens the door and finds Steve on the other side. He gives her a smile, and despite the guilt suddenly churning in her gut, she's hopeless not to smile back. "You look awfully chipper," she says.

"So do you."

He kneels in front of Yasha. "I heard the Avengers have a new mascot," he says.

"Tony tell you that?"

"He wants to dress him up."

"Not happening."

She smirks when Yasha plants both paws on Steve's knee and yips. "This is Yasha," she says.

"Yasha, huh?" Steve repeats as he scratches the dog behind the ears. "Good name."

"I thought so."

"I owe you lunch."

"You do, don't you? I'm driving."

"I have my bike."

She smirks. "I know."

They go to her favorite deli just like he'd promised, and he doesn't complain (much) when she tosses back the keys to his bike over her shoulder after she parks. "You know," he says. "If you like my bike so much, you should get your own."

"But why would I do that when I can just ride yours?"

He smirks at her even as he blushes. "You're terrible."

"You know you missed me."

"I did," he says honestly. "So c'mere."

His arm winds around her shoulders and pulls her to him. She feels his lips brush the top of her head and sighs. "C'mon," she says, winding her arm through his. "You promised lunch. I'm starving."

Steve pays for their food and they find a booth tucked in the back that's quiet. They spend the majority of their time talking about work in low voices. He tells her about the HYDRA bases that he and Sam had found instead of Bucky, and they discuss which bases to hit first and the problems they're likely to find. Two of the bases will require heavy recon, and she volunteers herself and Clint. It's what they do best. Steve agrees.

It's when they're sipping coffee and fighting over the last pieces of a cookie that Steve asks, "So, when you weren't figuring out your new cover, did you do anything fun?"

She smirks. "Did you?"

"Define fun."

"I was camping."

He raises his eyebrows with a little smile and leans back in his chair. "Camping, huh? That what spies do these days?"

"We're very adaptable," she retorts before stealing the last of the cookie and asking, "Did you ever call Sharon?"

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Nat."

"What? It's an innocent question."

"You know, it's a bit disconcerting when your partner is more interested in your love life than you are."

"Oh, so you have a love life? Tell me."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head when she smiles widely. "We've been on one date," he admits. "Last week."

"How'd it go?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"What more do you want, Romanoff?"

"All the dirty details."

"There are no dirty details."

She pouts. "Well, are you going to ask her out again?"

"She's somewhere in Europe right now. That's all she could tell me, so it might be awhile."

"Good. We have time to plan."

"We?"

"Oh, yes. You'll need my help for the second date."

"Why?"

"Because I know people," she says. "Don't worry. It'll be fun."

He smiles at her with this sort of fond exasperation that comes from loving someone despite their quirks. Would he forgive her if she told him the truth? She knows he'll find out eventually. Secrets never stay buried forever. She knows that better than most.

But she'll keep this one a bit longer.

* * *

 **Only two more chapters, guys! We're so close!**

 **Sorry updates have been spotty. It's easier for me to stick to a schedule when school is in session since I'm always waking up at the same time. These days, I'm either binging True Blood - yum, Eric Northman - in to the wee hours of the morning and sleeping until 3 in the afternoon or I'm up at the asscrack of dawn playing with horses. Ah, life.**

 **Next time in _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . no quote is really needed. Just one word: BUDAPEST.**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes: AHHHHHH! Only one more chapter! Ugh, I don't want this story to end. It's been such fun! Thank you to everyone who's enjoyed the ride with me.**

 **Now, what happened in Budapest awaits . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it. Not mine, no sir.**

* * *

Chapter 22: Past

Budapest was lovely in winter.

Snow fell softly in the lamplight as Natalia Romanova walked wrapped in a black trench coat with a striking white fur collar. She looked every inch the aristocrat she was meant to be, from the diamond pendant earrings in her ears to the matching bracelet on her gloved wrist. Her latest mark was an American accountant who had gotten in over his head with the Russian Bratva. Her mission was to extract information from him—shipments, numbers, the works. It was elementary work, entirely beneath her.

But Natalia was bored.

The Soviets hadn't tried to control her for a decade now. Things got interesting after the USSR dissolved, but she hadn't wanted to deal with pitifully weak men vying for power. So she essentially left, and everyone in Russia was wise enough to let her go. She began to take jobs for the money, no questions asked, and the past ten years or so had been very fruitful, in that regard.

She had a villa in Belize right on the water, but the last time she'd visited, she'd only stayed two days before the sun had seemed too bright and hot and the water not nearly as cool as she remembered. She had two apartments in the States, one in Washington D.C. and the other in New York. She'd just purchased a cabin in Minnesota for a rainy day. There was the flat in Kiev and the condo in Tokyo.

Natalia hadn't been to Moscow in years.

The snow reminded her of the winters of her youth, when she'd been young and alive. Able to delight in the crisp air and the gentle kiss of snowflakes on her skin. But Natalia was so old now, so tired, that she trudged through the falling snow with only one goal in mind—to get back to her hotel, take a long soak in the bath, and perhaps rent a romantic comedy to watch. She'd heard good things about _Sleepless in Seattle_.

Her mark, Wesley Marcum, had checked into the room right across from hers. Perhaps she would ask if he'd like to watch it with her.

There's a shortcut through an alley to the hotel, and while most women would avoid such a place alone at night, the Black Widow had no such qualms.

And when Natasha thought back to this moment, she thought that perhaps it was that kind of arrogance that had allowed Clint to so thoroughly get the jump on her.

One second she was on her feet, and the next she was on her ass in the snow.

"Fuck," she cursed.

"You know," Clint said as he aimed an arrow at her heart, "I've heard all these stories about the Black Widow. They say never to have expectations, but . . . _wow_."

Natalia huffed as got to her feet. "Do you always talk so much, Agent Barton?" She smirks lazily when he cocks an eyebrow. "I haven't lived this long without keeping track of who wants me dead. Nick Fury always has been a stubborn pain the ass, but sending an ex-carnival archer after me is just insulting."

"This coming from the woman wiping snow from her ass."

"This is cashmere."

"Sorry, I don't know the difference. I'm just a carnie with a bow, after all."

Natalia sighed heavily. Despite the quips, she recognized the hard look in his eye. He wouldn't just let her go. "Well, then," she said. "Let's get this over with."

With skills honed and perfected over decades, Natalia was able to go from lackadaisical and off-balance to quick and sharp in the span of a second, and so the woman that attacked Clint was every bit the Black Widow that he'd heard about. She lunged straight for him, turning gracefully to the side as he fired an arrow, the tip passing millimeters from her nose. Then her hand wrapped around his bow, and she pulled with greater strength than he ever would have expected from a woman her size. He moved with her, though, and threw his elbow back, hitting her in the face before swinging his bow around sharply like a staff.

Natalia leapt out of the way and stayed low. When Clint charged toward her, she kicked him square in the chest and then sprung up, kicking off the side of the alley wall to punch him in the face. Clint rolled over his shoulder and came up shooting, sending an arrow right under Natalia's feet as she jumped to avoid it. Then they were fighting over the bow, Natalia pulling the string. She kicked his knee and then backhanded him sharply across the face.

He let go. She kept the bow.

Clint drew a knife. "Okay, then," he said. "We'll do this the old-fashioned way."

"I've been doing this for longer than you've been alive, Barton," she said. "You won't win."

"Yeah, well, worth a shot."

Natalia begrudgingly admired Barton's talent. His style was straightforward and honest but powerful, and the longer they traded blows, the more she felt her mind slip like it often did these days. It was as if she was back in the Red Room, a young trainee with her new instructor, and for some reason, she felt her chest clench. Because as she continued to fight for her life, she realized with a pang that she hadn't danced like this in years.

She hadn't had a partner that could keep up with her.

But Barton could, and she was so tired.

She hissed at the sting of his blade glancing over her ribs. No one had drawn blood from her since the seventies, but the pain made her feel more alive than she could remember in so, so long. Natalia wasn't so far gone that she didn't know what that meant. All her jobs that she took lately were dangerous and brash, practically designed to kill her, and as she slowly began to lose ground to Barton, she realized that maybe that was what she wanted.

Maybe she wanted to die.

After dealing death for nearly fifty years now, maybe she was ready to experience it for herself.

Maybe it would be easier. Maybe it would be simpler. She already felt nothing. She was cold and empty, so like a Siberian winter, and maybe she was just tired and ready to _sleep_.

When she found herself in the snow once again, an arrow only inches from her chest, she didn't move. There were a dozen ways she could have fought back, but she just laid in the snow and let the cold seep through the cashmere of her coat. Her eyes darted from the arrow to the archer.

 _Do it_.

Clint frowned and abruptly lowered his bow. "You believe in second chances, Romanova?"

What the hell?

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah, you've been doing this for a long time and probably could've killed me seven ways from Sunday by now . . . but you haven't. You weren't even trying. You're lucky my ego isn't that fragile."

She sighed as she sat up. "Why do you care?"

"Look, the way I see it, you're bored as hell and just looking for anything that has some _meaning_ , right?" he challenged. "I've been there. SHIELD gave me a second chance. I figure it's my turn."

She huffed, getting to her feet. "I'm not some favor."

"How much sleep do you get at night?"

"What does it matter?"

"Because before I joined SHIELD, I was lucky to get two hours. Nightmares are a bitch."

"Some of us are stronger than others."

"Some of us are just more stubborn."

"What do you think is gonna happen, Barton?" Natalia challenged. "That I'm going to switch sides and make myself a good little soldier fighting the good fight? Suddenly all my sins are absolved? Is that what you think you're offering? Some sort of happy ending?"

"I'm offering you a choice. What you do with it is up to you."

 _Choice._

When was the last time she'd known what it was like to have the freedom to _choose_?

"I'll be at the Kempinski bar until midnight," he said. "Buy me a drink, and we'll talk."

He collapsed his bow into a baton and dropped it over his shoulder into his quiver that was deceptively made like an average backpack. And it was luck that Natalia caught the shadow of movement over his shoulder. There was no time to shout a warning, and so Natalia did the only thing she could—she launched herself at Barton.

He raised his hands in surprise, ready to defend himself, until she knocked them both to the ground just as the unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoed in the alley, and a spray of dust and brick rained down on them as a bullet embeded itself right where his head had been.

"Shit," he cursed, but Natalia was already moving, plucking a knife from her coat and throwing it with a sharp flick of her wrist. She didn't wait to see if it landed. She knew it would.

Instead, she grabbed Clint's arm. "C'mon, we need to move."

"Who the hell are they?"

"I don't know. Enemies."

"How many enemies do you have?"

"I've been in this game for a long time. A lot. Do you have a car?"

"Round the block."

"Good."

Despite their urgency to get to some form of safety, Natalia and Clint didn't run. They walked calmly but quickly onto the main sidewalk. It was a Saturday night, and so there was still plenty of traffic. No one would risk open fire in such a crowd, and so it bought them a little time. Clint carefully observed the faces around them.

"I make five," he said. "Two in front. Two in back. Got one on the roof. Southwest corner. Just who did you piss off?"

"Bratva."

"Russian mob? Shouldn't you be on the same side?"

"Not when you steal two million dollars from them and kill their Kapitan."

"You did what?"

Natalia shrugged. "I was going to frame an accountant from another chapter and start a war," she said. "Let them fight it out. Why do you think I'm here?"

"Yeah, well, you're secret's out."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Clint unlocked the car and slid wordlessly into the driver's seat as Natalia closed the door to the passenger side. "Buckle up," he said before pulling into traffic.

Natalia unbuttoned her coat, revealing a silky black evening gown and two H&Ks. The slit in her gown that went to her hip revealed a knife-garnished garter belt. Clint chuckled. "I'll give you this, Romanova," he said as he powered through a red light trying to lose their tails. They had two by his count. "You've got style."

"I may be a spy, but I do have standards. Take a right."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

They were on a quieter street with less traffic, and Clint wondered for a second why the hell she'd wanted them here in the open before he realized her plan. It was crazy. No, it was fucking insane. Yet, strangely, their best option. There was no way they would lose them in the city. No matter what, traffic was too dense and there were too many potential casualties.

So here they were.

A black SUV appeared on the other end of the street, and Clint gripped the wheel. "You got this?" he asked as Natalia held up her gun.

"I don't miss."

The SUV accelerated sharply, charging straight toward them. Clint kept the wheel steady. There was a deafening bang and a shower of glass as the windshield shattered, followed by a second shot that made his ears ring. The SUV in front of them swerved violently, two small holes in its windshield, before it crashed into a parked car. Clint abruptly spun the wheel of their car, the back bumper hitting the crashed SUV, and creating a nice shooter's nest that could provide cover and multiple lines of sight.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done," Clint said as he climbed out of the car. "And I've mixed coke and pop rocks."

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, we're up against at least twenty angry Russians with guns, and I've got a bow and arrow."

"Now isn't the time to feel inadequate, Barton."

"Hold on, _inadequate_? I didn't say that. I'm very adequate."

"I'm flattered, but you're not really my type."

"That wasn't what I—shit, here they come."

Two SUVs spun around the corner and gunned their engines. Natalia hummed. "You take the one on the left," she said. "It's only fair."

"Only fair," Clint grumbled but nocked an arrow anyway.

The next few minutes were chaos. One man held half his body out of the window and opened fire with an uzi, sending Natalia and Clint ducking for cover. Natalia popped up after a few seconds despite the hail of bullets and fired two quick shots, taking out the front tires of the SUV on the right, which collided neatly with its companion, sending the man the uzi flying out of the vehicle and into another car parked on the side of the road.

The peace didn't last long. The small suburban street became a storm of gunfire, the muzzle flashes from all the discharges lighting up the street like the Fourth of July. A stray bullet hit an engine. A car exploded in a roar of flame. Natalia and Clint alternated covering for each other and slowly eliminated the majority of the Bratva Budapest chapter.

Clint ducked for cover as another spray of bullets came at them. "This is insane," he said, glancing over at Natalia, who had a smile on her face. "You're insane."

"What? This is fun."

"You and I have a very different definition of fun."

"To be fair, I am running out of bullets," she said. "Cover me."

Clint sighed tiredly, grumbled under his breath, but popped up from the relatively safety of the car and quickly fired arrow after arrow while Natalia dove into the SUV of their crashed neighbors, rifling around in the back for something they could use. Surely, they had a . . . oh, _yes_ . . .

Natalia emerged from the SUV with a broad grin that Clint instantly distrusted. He briefly hung his head at the weapon in her hands. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"What? We're running out of ammo, here."

"That's a _grenade_ _launcher_."

"Good eye, Barton. I was beginning to doubt your little nickname. What's Hawkeye about, anyway?"

"It's . . . never mind what it is! You're going to fire a grenade launcher in a residential neighborhood?" They were suddenly blinded by a bright, white light. Clint looked up. "Oh, great. Hey, look. We've made the news!"

"Can't win them all," Natalia said before cocking the gun and firing at a cluster of Bratva. Two cars went up in flames, along with a fire hydrant that erupted like a geyser. She fired again immediately after, totaling another three cars. Clint could just barely hear the shouts of the remaining Bratva. Natalia tossed away the grenade launcher. "Time to go," she said.

Amazingly, the car still turned over, and so despite the fact that it was missing a passenger door, a windshield, and was riddled with bullet holes, Clint gunned the engine and shot away from the scene. It took some creative driving to lose the helicopter, but eventually they found a parking garage and abandoned the car. Going their separate ways without a word, Clint lost his black jacket to reveal a dark purple sweater, while Natalia entered the elevator. While she was there, in the brief time she had from the third level to the basement, she pulled off her blonde wig, tucking it into the pocket of her coat. She quickly took the pins out of her hair, letting it fall in long, thick red curls to her shoulders. She ducked her head to ruffle them and by the time the elevator dinged, she stepped out casually with her hands in her pockets, and calmly walked onto the street.

She checked her watch as the helicopter flew overhead. One hour to midnight.

It took her little time to get her affairs in order. She found an internet café open late and wired a hefty nest egg to her account in the States. She also took the time to kill two of her Soviet aliases, choosing to keep one for emergency purposes. And she could always make more anyway. In thirty short minutes, Natalia had erased _Natalia Romanova_ from Eastern Europe. She also hacked into the Red Room and KGB and deleted her files.

Particularly the ones that gave away her age.

If she was starting over, she was starting over with a clean slate.

Natalia arrived at the Kempinski with ten minutes to spare. She spotted Barton at the bar in a dark purple sweater and blue jeans. She smirked to herself as she spotted the thick black rims of his glasses. _Hawkeye, indeed_.

She took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. The bartender went to her the second she smiled at him, and she felt like a new person as she leaned toward him in a plain white sweater and simple pearl studs in her ears. "I'll have a vodka," she said before glancing pointedly at Clint. "So will he."

The bartender grinned and nodded. "Yes, miss."

She waited until Clint got his drink, and when he looked down the bar at her, she smirked and raised her glass. He toasted back.

* * *

Two days later, she found herself sitting in Nick Fury's office at the newly built Triskelion, watching as the Director of SHIELD stared through the tall glass walls to stare at the Potomac. She'd been sitting in the single chair in front of his desk for an hour now. Neither had yet to say a word.

Fury was the one to break it.

"So, what makes a Russian KGB operative want to defect? Particularly an operative with such a long and illustrious career as yours?"

She swallowed and gave him a twitch of a smile. "I've got red in my ledger," she said. "I'd like to wipe it out."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't."

Fury hummed and tapped at a file on his desk. "I see you've refused to submit to a psychological evaluation."

"I've had enough people in my head over the years. I don't need another one." She gave him another small smile as she stood. "Look, Nick, we're both too old to play these games," she said. "This is what you wanted."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Of all the agents to send after me, you send Barton. Fresh off the farm with a habit of questioning his orders." She smirked. "It was a win-win for you. He makes the call, then I'm no longer causing you trouble. He makes a different call, then I'm still causing trouble, only now it's to your benefit." She cocked her head to the side. "So, what's it gonna be, Nick? Do you want me or not?"

Fury couldn't remember the last time anyone had disrespected him so cavalierly. Even Hill, who had no qualms calling him on his bullshit, was loyal and obedient to a fault. But if he took in Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, he was well-aware that he, at the end of the day—no matter what he may like to think—would not be her boss. He would never hold authority over her like he did over every other person in the building.

She was the closest to being an equal out of everyone else.

And she knew it.

So, for now, Fury would let her set the dynamic. He couldn't press her. Not yet. He had to win her trust, and that was no easy feat, but then if there was one spy in the world who could outwit the Black Widow, it was Nicholas J. Fury.

He'd put her with Coulson and Barton. She could learn trust from them, and then, one day, she could earn it back.

"Alright, then, Agent," he said. "I'm gonna need a name for your record. So, who are you now?"

"Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

"Well then, Agent Romanoff. Welcome to SHIELD."

* * *

 **We're almost full circle, guys and gals. Just one more chapter.**

 **Next time in _A Ghost of a Memory_ . . . "Open the door, sweetheart." - Bucky**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes: Well, here we are, my lovely readers. The final chapter has arrived. I just want to take a quick moment to thank all of you, profusely, whether you reviewed, alerted, favorited, or just read along. Thank you so much. This was not only my first fic in this fandom, but also my first fic in years. I was nervous! But you guys made it worth it. Thank you.**

 **More at the end! But first let's get a bit of a reunion, yes?**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 23: Present

"You know, I had you pegged as a cat person."

"Nick."

He sits in her blue wingback reading chair next to the window, absently scratching a panting Yasha behind the ears. Though he's yet to look up, she knows that he's watching her, silently assessing, and she waits. She knows there's only one reason he's here, but instead of outright asking, she says, "I thought you were in Austria."

He looks up. "I thought you were in Minnesota."

She smirks a little. "Guess we were both wrong."

"Guess we were," he agrees. There's a pause. "I have a mission for you, Romanoff."

"Technically, you're not my boss anymore."

"A favor, then."

She waits. Both of them know that this is all formality. Their banter is merely a way to judge the other's reactions, and Natasha knows by the way Fury is outright ignoring her deflections that whatever he wants from her he knows will be hard won. So she bows her head slightly, and asks, "What favor?"

"Banner."

She only narrows her eyes in confusion for a split second before understanding dawns. Her stomach drops like a rock, and she swallows back the acid in her throat. But she smirks anyway, face a perfect mask, and says, "That's one hell of a favor, Nick."

"You're the only one who can."

"Ask Stark."

"Stark doesn't have the gentlest touch."

"Is that what I have?"

"Natasha." She lowers her eyes at his tone. It's rare, soft, what she imagines as fatherly. And she knows that Fury knows that. "For the Hulk to be properly utilized, he has to be controlled. He has to trust. That's going to take some effort."

She scoffs. "Effort."

Fury gently nudges Yasha from his lap, and the dog drops dutifully to the floor and sits. "I know you don't want to do this," he says, "but there are some things that must be done, lines that we have to cross. I'm trusting you to be what you always are, Natasha. I'm trusting you to be rational."

 _So, are you?_

The question rings loud and clear, and she lifts her chin. Her eyes were hard, her voice cold. "Always."

Nick nods, and she doesn't turn to see him out until he asks, "What'd you name the dog?"

She swallows. "Yasha."

And she watches as perhaps the one man who understands her in a way that no one else can sighs and says, "I'm sorry."

* * *

 _One Year Later . . ._

He's in Kathmandu and lucky enough to be in a bar with a television when he looks up for the latest football scores and instead sees news footage of the Avengers in Sokovia. Thor is a blur on the screen. Iron Man is a red streak. He sees Steve on the ground. The archer is invisible but he sees the arrows flying. The Hulk is out causing a riot, smashing the—the fuck, are those robots?—like pancakes, but his ballerina is nowhere in sight.

That's when the whole city starts to fall, and the Arabic scrolling at the bottom of the screen reveals that the Avengers had saved tens of thousands of people, and all had gotten out safely with the help of ex-SHIELD Director, Nick Fury. Bucky continues to watch with the rest of the bar as the news footage continues to play. There's a swift, fervent rush of affection in his chest when he watches Steve and Natasha throw the shield back and forth. He's happy seeing them together.

Then Natasha's face appears on the screen again. She's standing on the edge of the helicarrier, her hair dancing in the wind—shorter than when he'd last seen her—and the look in her eyes has him in New York within forty-eight hours.

It doesn't take him long to find her. He knows her too well. She would heal on her own in her own space where she could be weak if she wanted. Undoubtedly, she still has safe houses throughout the city, and he has to smile when he finds her in an apartment in his old Brooklyn neighborhood. He scans the names at the door, looking for something familiar, and feels his chest tighten painfully when he reads the alias he knows is hers.

 _Natalie Barnes._

He buzzes her apartment. She doesn't answer. He buzzes again, and she answers but doesn't say anything so he just says, "Open the door, sweetheart."

The door opens.

Her apartment is 1917, and his knuckles have barely touched the wood before her door swings open and there she is and Jesus Christ, he's fucking missed her. She doesn't say anything, just stares at him with wide, stunned, happy eyes. He steps closer, crossing the threshold, and she lets the door shut behind him. Then she's in his arms. His face is buried in her hair for a blissful second before she's lifting her head and her lips are on his and _why the hell had he ever left_.

"James," she says. Her hands slip from his hair and slide down his neck to his shoulders. "You came home."

"I saw the news. I needed to make sure you were okay."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"I don't," he says honestly. "But you still get hurt, and I . . . I fucking hate it when you're hurt, Tasha."

She strokes his cheek. "I'm fine. Nothing a hot bath won't fix." He smiles when she presses against him and lowers her voice. "You could join me."

He joins her.

He's grateful for her indulgence in old clawfoot tubs that are wide enough and deep enough for both of them to fit. It's snug but he doesn't mind in the slightest since it only means that Natasha's hot, wet skin is pressed against his. She sighs contently, her face tucked into the crook of his neck as he gently traces his fingers over every bruise and massages every knotted muscle that he finds, all while placing sweet kisses to the top of her head.

"I missed you," she says, breaking the silence as she laces her fingers over the top of his where his arm is wrapped around her stomach. "Where have you been?"

"Started in Italy. Moved on to Hallstatt, then Berlin. Headed west after that. Spent some time in Prague." He smiles into her hair. "I was in Kathmandu when I saw the news." He chuckles. "They have good tea."

"I did tell you."

"Yes, you did."

"What about your dreams?"

"They're worse without you."

"You should stay."

"I can't."

She sighs. "I know."

Eventually they move to the bed, but never truly part. He lies on his side, arm outstretched under her pillow, the other resting gently over her stomach, his thumb rubbing absently at the gunshot wound on her hip. Natasha is as close to him as she can be lying on her back, and with her head turned toward him their noses nearly touch. She stares at him and he stares at her, drinking in the closeness they've both desperately missed, silently speaking. Bucky frowns after a while and says, "What really happened?"

Natasha smiles weakly. "Assignment. Nothing I haven't done before."

Bucky stares at her a second longer, searching. "But this time was different."

"He's a friend. Or he was. I don't know. He sort of Dear Johned me, in his own way."

Bucky isn't immediately upset. For one, he isn't sure whether he should be upset or not. It's part of her job. Part of their jobs. He knows that. So he can know it meant nothing, that it was all an elaborate con, but that's not what bothers him. What bothers him is the fact that Natasha is upset.

He kisses her softly. "Tell me."

"Banner."

"The Hulk."

"We needed a way to control man and beast. They share the same heart." Her eyes flicker up to his. "I didn't want to hurt him, James."

He's quiet. He doesn't want to placate her. Both of them are too old and cynical for that, but he does raise his hand to her cheek, brushing over the soft skin with his thumb and then tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't give a fuck about Banner," he says. "I care about you."

"James."

"Natalia." He kisses her again. "What's wrong? Really."

Maybe it's cold of him, but Bucky doesn't think she's that upset about Banner. He knows she's all twisted up about deceiving a friend, but something still doesn't ring true. _She's_ upset. _She's_ hurting.

Natasha looks down briefly, her eyes settling on his jaw and his lips. He's just as scruffy as he was at the cabin, and she wonders if it's laziness or if he doesn't like seeing himself as he once was - clean-shaven and whole. She drags a fingernail along his jaw, feeling the slight resistance. James just waits for her, like always, and she almost hates him for it.

"He left," she says eventually. "How fucked up is that? I didn't love him, not like he thought. It was a lie. Lies aren't supposed to hurt."

Bucky sighs quietly as the pieces click into place, and he smiles, though with little humor. It's heart-breakingly endearing that his ballerina is so good at reading everyone else and absolute shit at reading herself. "No," he agrees. Lies don't hurt. Not to people like them. Lies are easy. "But the truth does." He cradles her face, tilts her head. Her green eyes are sad and confused. "I left," he said simply.

Natasha looks away. "It's different."

"Yeah. That's why it hurts."

"It's different. You had to leave. You needed to be on your own. It didn't have anything to do with me."

Yet as she says it - words that have swirled in the back of her mind for over a year - she doesn't quite believe them.

"What would we have done, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice soft. She doesn't think he's ever used such a tone before. It's tender but regretful. There had never been time for regret in the past. "You're an Avenger. I'm an international war criminal. There's no hiding from that."

"Of course not. That's not what I'm saying."

"I didn't leave because of you, Natasha," he says as he tucks her hair behind her ear. She meets his eyes again. She's missed him so much. "I wish I could've stayed. I wanted to stay."

"You said we weren't ready."

"Not for what you want."

"What's that?"

Her eyes are narrowed, her chin in the air. Defiant. He smiles faintly. "A life," he says. "A cover that feels real. You and me. Some apartment like this one. A dumb dog and fighting for visitation rights over Steve."

Natasha scoffs even as her heart clenches. "It wouldn't be a fight," she says, and Bucky chuckles. Her eyes close. He never laughed like that at the cabin. It's lighter now. Less haunted.

"One day," Bucky promises. "One day, it'll be you and me."

Natasha measures his words as she stares into his eyes. She's searching for the lie. Part of her wants to find it, that dark part of her that refuses to believe she deserves such a prize. Not after the life she's lived and all she's done. She's still drowning in so much red. But her James isn't lying. He's telling the truth, and oh, it hurts. It hurts because she wants it. That stupid, silly, normal day-to-day life that she's been denied her entire life. She wants grocery lists and dinners and dates and rings. She wants a ring. She wants the title. She wants _him_.

But it's not the right time.

So she sighs and shuffles impossibly closer to him. "Will you be here in the morning?" she asks softly.

He pulls her tighter. His eyes close. "Do you want me to be?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be here."

* * *

Bucky keeps his promise. When Natasha wakes up an hour before dawn, she's aware of many things at once. His arm beneath her head, his hand just below her breasts, curled protectively over her ribs. Their legs are a tangled mess, and his breath fans the top of her head in a gentle, steady rhythm. She smiles sleepily, still half-asleep, and lets her eyes flutter closed because she can.

There's no need to be immediately alert. No reason to follow through on decades of training that has always allowed her to be fully awake at a second's notice. She can be sleepy and slow and vulnerable because James is here. God, he's really here.

She's hesitant to move in case it wakes him. She knows that as soon as he's awake, he'll leave just as quietly as he'd arrived. It's too dangerous for him to stay. The UN has a task force specifically to find him. All US Intelligence is still out for blood after DC even a year and a half later. It's not safe for him to stay, and she knows that.

She just wishes that wherever he went, she could follow. At least for a little while.

God, she misses him.

The cabin spoiled her. Being with him all day, sharing a bed, making breakfast, sparring in the yard, living a life with him. It's hard to believe it's been a year since then, but she misses it. She misses curling into him after a long day and listening to him murmur in Russian about some part of their life from before that he's remembered. She misses their nights on the town when they were just James and Natasha. She misses watching James scowl as Yasha nipped at his heels and then finding the two of them napping on the couch later.

 _Not yet_ , she tells herself. _One day, but not yet_.

As if summoned by mere thought, Natasha hears the door creak and then a familiar soft pad of paws. She laughs internally when Yasha rounds her side of the bed and gives her the most disappointed eyes, as if he can't believe his place in the bed has been taken by someone else, and she reaches out to brush his muzzle with her thumb.

Which of course Yasha takes as an invitation.

The dog, now full-grown and a solid sixty-four pounds, lands on the bed like a lead weight, making the bed dip and generally disturbing the quiet peace Natasha had been so thoroughly enjoying. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he happily trots over to her and settles halfway on top of her with a huff, his head resting smugly on her shoulder, and Natasha begins to chuckle when she feels the arm around her waist tighten.

She can just imagine the staredown going on between her boys.

"Tasha," Bucky's voice is lower than usual, still filled with sleep. "I thought we had a rule about the mutt and the bed."

"Did we?" she asks innocently as she tucks her face into Yasha's fur.

"I don't like the way he's staring at me."

"Well, you're sort of in his spot, _soldat_."

"The hell I am."

Bucky gently pulls her closer, and Yasha growls. Bucky growls back. Natasha laughs, but pushes Yasha back. "Not now, _moy malen'kiy soldat,"_ she says, smirking when both Yasha and Bucky huff.

"You did not just call him that," Bucky mutters. " _Little soldier_. He's a goddamn menace."

Natasha turns toward him as Yasha leaps to the floor. She cradles his face sweetly and yet teasingly. "You'll always be my _soldat_ ," she promises. "I loved you first."

She says it so casually and easily that Bucky has to blink in surprise. It's not as if he didn't know. He's always known, somehow, even when they didn't remember each other, but they've never said the words. Natasha smiles slightly as her thumb brushes against the scruff on his jaw. "You and me," she says softly. "Right?"

Bucky smiles then, gentle and sincere, and Natasha smiles back. "Always," he promises.

They make love slowly—the kind of lazy Sunday morning sex meant to last all day—and when Natasha is curled into him afterward, kittenish and content, Bucky kisses her temple and says, "I love you, too. _Moy krasnyy balerinoy_."

He holds her while she sleeps, only occasionally dozing as the day slowly passes by, and wishes that he could stay. But he merely closes his eyes and commits this moment to memory—the feel of her, her scent, the way her lips pout when she sleeps—and when the sun falls beneath the window sill, Bucky kisses her cheek to wake her. "I've gotta go, sweetheart."

Natasha kisses him, lips demanding and fervent. "Stay out of trouble," she says.

"Stay safe."

"Always."

* * *

 **And there we go.**

 **So, a few things: 1) This chapter is my explanation for the where-the-fuck-did-that-come-from Brutasha relationship in AOA. Seriously, Joss, what the fuck, dude. 2) Brutasha just so happened to mirror a few themes I'd been playing with for Bucky/Nat. So, a begrudging thanks. 3) THE FEELS WE FINALLY GOT I LOVE YOU YAS THIS IS WHAT I WAITED 23 CHAPTERS TO WRITE FUCK YES.**

 ***takes calming breath***

 **On another note, there's been chatter (both by me and my lovely reviewers) about sequel potential. Won't lie, I'd love to continue this. Bucky and Nat still have so many places to go and ways to grow. The thing is, I'm super busy finishing my last year of graduate school and working on my application for the Navy. I've only done some outlining about what I'd like a sequel to look like. I've also been working on a group of one-shots that leads up to Civil War and gives us some character insights during the events of the movie. All BuckyNat centric. It mirrors the same format as _Haunting Memories_ that I posted before this story. Hopefully I can get that posted in the next few weeks.**

 **Anyway, sequel: Do you want one? If so, what do you want to see? Steve's reaction to Bucky/Nat? Sam's reaction? Everyone's reaction? A pseudo-Black Widow movie with a Red Room storyline? Bucky's trial so he can be exonerated? Bucky joining Avengers? The list is endless people, and I need help controlling plot bunnies. Also, if I were to do a sequel, it would definitely be AU since I'd have to ignore what we saw in the leaked Infinity Wars trailer because I don't want to write my own version of Infinity War. I'll happily let the Russo Bros. do that.**

 **So! Thoughts! Review! *blows kisses***

 **See you soon (hopefully),**

 **AC**


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